The Sword for its Sharpness
by Third Crow
Summary: What if, instead of Steve Rodgers, there was Stephanie Rodgers? A mostly canon-compliant story in which a female Captain America breaks hearts and saves lives.
1. Chapter 1

_I do not love the bright sword for its sharpness, nor the arrow for its swiftness, nor the warrior for his glory. I love only what they defend._

Faramir, Captain of Gondor, in _The Two Towers_ by J. R. R. Tolkien

* * *

Chapter 1 - 1928

*Notes: This story has some differences from established MCU continuity - beyond the gender of Captain America, I mean. In this story, Stephanie is raised by her father - not her mother. Being raised by her father makes Stephanie more of an outsider in the 20's and 30's - as she had no one to teach her the cultural requirements of womanhood at the time, like coiffed hair and makeup. A small, sickly girl is less a target of scorn than a small, sickly boy - but a girl who likes Julius Caesar and wears pants would certainly attract some derision.

* * *

The other girls had cornered her on the way home from the library. This time, they grabbed her books and glasses - tossing them to each other and making her try to catch them until she started wheezing. When it was obvious she couldn't run anymore they threw her things into the alley and laughed - because how could she find her glasses without using her glasses? Everyone knew little Stephanie Rogers was blind as a bat without 'em.

She was on her hands and knees in the alley, gently feeling around herself, her thoughts bouncing between _don't cry don't cry_ and _what did I just touch?! _\- when she heard footsteps behind her.

Back for more, huh? Well, they wouldn't see her scared. She didn't even look around.

"What, no puppies to kick? Your life must be pretty darn boring if pestering me is the best you can do on Friday afternoon." She heard a chuckle. Was that good or bad? She kept going, happy that her voice was only shaking a little. "Maybe you should pick up a hobby, like reading. Oh wait...reading requires thinking. My mistake."

"I found your specs." A boy's voice. Stephanie turned around and squinted up at a blurry figure holding out a blurry hand bearing another blur that was presumably her glasses.

"...Thanks." She took them and put them on. _Not broken. That's a relief. _

The blur resolved itself into a rangy, dark-haired kid a little older than she was, maybe eleven, messy, rumpled, and sporting a faded black eye. Stephanie had seen him at school and around the block- typically either getting in fights with other boys, getting an earful from his mom, or getting sent to the principal's office.

"They were pretty dirty. I wiped 'em off for you." His shirt wasn't very clean either, which would explain why Stephanie now looked at the world through a smeary curtain of grime. "I tried to clean up your book too, but…" He shrugged. Stephanie saw that her book - her _library_ book - had clearly landed face down in a puddle. Its pages were already waterlogged and wrinkling.

With an inarticulate cry of dismay, Stephanie snatched the book from the boy's hands and cradled it as if it were an injured kitten. Her lower lip began to quiver.

"Aw, jeez," he said, "Look, don't cry; I'm sure we can dry it out with a hair dryer or something…"

"I wasn't going to cry," Stephanie lied. "Your ma has a hair dryer?"

"Why shouldn't she?" The boy said sharply. His father was gone, but not dead, and defending his mother was the cause of most of his schoolyard scraps. Stephanie's lip began to tremble again. "Shucks, I'm sorry. Look, why don't you come by and we'll try it out."

The boy lived just down the block from Stephanie, and on the way to his house he told her his name was James Buchanan Barnes - saying the name as if it left a bad taste in his mouth. "Just call me Bucky."

"Stevie Rogers," said Stephanie.

Mrs. Barnes - pleasantly surprised that her son was back before dark, without any new bruises, and wanting to pass the afternoon doing something involving a book - loaned her hair dryer to the cause without complaint, and even brought in some peanut butter sandwiches after a few minutes.

"Are you sure this will work?" Stevie was propping up the book while Bucky aimed the hair dryer at it with one hand and shoved a sandwich into his mouth with the other.

"Sure, why not?" He said, spraying crumbs. "It works on hair, right? Hey, what's the big to-do about this book, anyway? Looks like a real snooze from where I'm sitting."

"It is not!" Stevie said, offended. "It's a biography of Alexander the Great - the greatest general and military strategist of all time! He conquered the entire known world! Well, what was known at the time...not America or Africa."

"Really? Then why haven't I ever heard of him?"

Stevie glared. "Maybe you would have if you spent more time in class."

"Ouch!" Bucky put his hand to his chest melodramatically, as if she had shot him. "What'd he do, if he was so amazing?"

Stevie pushed up her glasses. "Alright. When Alexander was conquering Persia he came to a fort called the Sogdian Rock…"

Bucky snickered. "The soggy rock?"

"Be quiet! I'm telling the story! Anyway, it was a fort on a cliff - a sheer, steep cliff - that had never been taken in battle, so when Alexander asked the general to surrender, he laughed and said Alexander would need men with wings to capture the Rock."

Stevie's face shone with animation. Bucky found he was leaning forward, eager in spite of himself to find out what happened.

"Alexander took 300 men and they climbed the cliff at night using tent pegs and linen rope. 30 men died. But the next day, Alexander told the defenders to look up, and they saw his 270 soldiers on the peak above them. He said, 'You see, I found the ones with wings.'"

Stevie stopped to take a bite of sandwich.

"And?" said Bucky. "What happened?"

"They surrendered on the spot. Alexander took the fort without a fight and married the general's daughter."

"No fight?! What a gyp." Bucky seemed disappointed. "Swell story, though. I see what you mean about old Alex...Hey, is the book dry yet? This thing is heavy."

Stevie checked the pages. "It is getting dry," she bit her lip, "but the pages are still all wrinkled. Miss Robinson will be so mad!" Stevie's breath began to hitch up in her chest at the thought of being banned from the library.

Bucky clicked the hair dryer off and shook out his wrists. "Don't worry about it."

Stevie clutched the poor, battered book and gave Bucky an expression that mingled disbelief and despair.

"Look, leave it to me." Bucky pointed at his chest proudly. "Ma says I have the Barnes charm."

"More than is good for you," Bucky's mother said from the doorway. "Will you be staying for dinner, Stephanie?"

"Oh!" Stevie scrambled to her feet - a little too fast, Mrs. Barnes had to take her arm to keep her from stumbling. "No, thank you Mrs. Barnes, I should get home to my dad."

"All right, but at least take something with you." She smiled maternally at Stevie. "James, walk her home, would you dear?"

Bucky, good to his word, did walk Stevie home, and he did "take care" of her library problem with a sob story that embellished the truth only slightly. He told a beaming Stevie that the book was hers to keep and she was so happy she kissed him on the cheek before she realized what she was doing. They were both, of course, mortified.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2 - 1933

The years passed. Bucky Barnes was now teenaged and tall, with eyes the color of a tropical ocean and a sweet smile that belied his reputation for trouble. These days, he could be spotted smoking on street corners and dancing in jazz clubs with older women. Stevie Rogers, on the other hand, didn't grow much taller and didn't fill out at all. She lacked what her homeroom teacher would call "the feminine graces," and seemed to be composed entirely of elbows and knees, wrapped up in oversized sweaters and topped with messy blonde braids. Stevie was not the kind of girl Bucky Barnes would flirt with, smoke with, or dance with - and yet they seemed to be together nine days out of every ten. When it was sunny they'd sit on the steps of the tenements and Bucky would smoke while Stevie drew or read aloud - Julius Caesar, Herodotus, Machiavelli. When it rained, and Stevie got one of her bad chest colds, Bucky would read to her - comics, mostly.

"You shouldn't stay here all day, Buck," Stevie said hoarsely from under a mound of blankets.

"Well, your pa sure can't," Bucky replied. "He's at the shop."

"Yeah, but…" Stevie interrupted herself with an alarming bout of coughing that left Bucky scrambling for a glass of water. "Thanks. Anyway, Buck, you have school. You can't afford to miss so many days."

Bucky took the empty glass and straightened the blankets around Stevie as she lay back. "Come on. You know Miss Jenkins loves you - I'll just tell her I was helping you and all will be forgiven." He raised his voice in a quavering falsetto. "For my favorite student? The incomparable Miss Rogers?" He widened his eyes and clasped his hands melodramatically over his chest. "Anything, anything at all! Take a week off! Buy a Butterfinger, on me!"

Stevie laughed at the impression, which made her cough again. Bucky hid a worried frown behind his comic book. "Now," he said, doing his best to imitate the dramatic tones of the narrator from The Shadow, "Lean back and listen to the continuing adventures of...Doc Savage...the Man of Bronze. When we last left our hero, he was trapped in the Bermuda Triangle...will he be able to fight his way free?"

If people wondered why Bucky hang around Stevie - "an asthmatic egghead with the figure of a hat rack" as one of her schoolmates aptly described her - they learned to keep both their wonder and their apt descriptions to themselves. Bucky was hot-tempered and quick with his fists. As for Stevie herself, she never wondered about it. Bucky was her friend and she was his, and that was all there was to it. Being Bucky Barnes' friend has its advantages - the girls in school didn't take Stevie's glasses anymore - but she still sometimes found herself on the wrong side of a fight. Normally, because she put herself there.

"Hey, Stevie...What's this?" Bucky took hold of her chin and tipped her face up to the thin light coming through the autumn clouds. There was a bruise on her right cheek. He glowered. "Stevie."

"Bucky," she replied, in her best imitation of his stern voice. She tried to stare him down, but looked away after a few moments. "It was Mark Kessel. I saw him in an alley with Johnny Shotsman and his goons. They were hitting him...calling him a fag."

"And you just had to step in?" Bucky glared at her. "Was it any of your business?"

"Why are you angry at me?" Stevie held her books to her chest defensively. "Johnny Shotsman is the thug who was beating up a guy in an alley."

"And now," Bucky rolled his eyes, "I have to beat up Johnny Shotsman. Again. As if I didn't have enough to do this weekend."

"It wasn't him," Stevie looked down at her shoes. "It was Mark."

"What?"

She had stepped into the mouth of the alley and called out as loudly as she could - quickly, so she wouldn't have time to chicken out. When everyone stopped and stared at her like a pack wolves eyeing a toy poodle, she felt like her teeth were going to chatter right out of her head. But she looked Johnny square in his pig eyes and told him she had seen him stealing cigarettes from the corner store, and wouldn't Mr. DiTomasso like to know? Stevie hated resorting to tattling, but what else was she going to do - wrestle him into submission? Not likely. Johnny had called her fucking snitch and tried to tower over her menacingly; but she didn't flinch, so he spat on the ground and left with his friends. Stevie was so relieved she thought she might pass out.

When she held out a hand to help Mark up, however, he had shouted that he didn't need her and pushed her, hard.

"So I slipped on something and got this," Stevie finished, pointing to her bruise. "I just can't understand why Mark would do that. I was trying to help."

Bucky pinched his nose as if she was giving him a headache. "That's why you should stay out of other people's fights, Stevie, I told you…"

Stevie looked up at him, her eyes wide, sincere and sky blue behind her thick lenses. "I can't, Buck. I can't see someone being hurt and just...walk on by. Sorry."

"You see what I have to deal with?" Bucky asked no one in particular. "There's a reason knights in shining armor are men, you know - and don't go telling me about Queen Whatshername who could lift camels and beheaded a thousand guys, ok?" He took her by the shoulders and bent down to look her in the face. "Just tell me you'll be careful. I don't want anything to happen to you."

Stevie wasn't accustomed to seeing Bucky so serious. "I'll try."

He nodded. "I'll take it." He straightened and patted her on the back, hard enough to make her cough. "Let's go; you wouldn't want to be tardy and disappoint Miss Jenkins."

They walked along in silence...for a moment. "Ugh. Mark Kessel." Bucky said, twisting his face like he just ate a lemon. "I can't hit Mark Kessel - he weighs less than you. Why couldn't it have been Johnny Shotsman? I love punching that creep."

**Notes: Thank you to everyone who has read and followed! I hope to continue updating every week - until I catch up with myself (working on Chapter 11 currently).** Please forgive any irregularities of formatting - I'm still getting used to working with FFN's document uploader thingy.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3 - June 7, 1941

*A short chapter this time. This scene is derived from the flashback in _Winter Soldier,_ where Bucky offers Steve a job and a place to stay. In this universe, Bucky offers Stevie...something else.

* * *

_It should be raining._ Stevie thought. _A bitter, freezing rain._

That would have been the right weather for a funeral, but instead it was a perfect June day: sunny, breezy, and not yet too hot to hang around outside in the afternoon. The graveside sermon had been accompanied by inconsiderately tweeting birds, the walk home interrupted by bands of laughing, scampering children. Now, Stevie and Bucky stood in front of her apartment, her hand on the doorknob. She couldn't bring herself to open the door, to see the home she had shared with her father quiet and empty.

Bucky shifted and cleared his throat. "So..I thought the ceremony was...nice."

Stevie nodded. "He's next to mom now. It's what he wanted."

"And what about you?" He asked. "How are you doing?"

"The fellas from the shop scraped up a collection, so I should have enough for a few months rent, enough to cover me until I find a job."

_Hopefully find a job. A job where the boss is alright with me calling off sick every other week. I'm doomed._

"That's not what I meant, exactly," Bucky smoothed his dark hair back from his face. "But since we're on the subject, I thought...I thought you might consider...moving in...with me."

Stevie let go of the doorknob and turned around. Bucky kept talking, more quickly now.

"I mean, I have my own place now, and the pay at the garage is good, good enough to support a wi..." He cut himself off, cast about for something else to say. "It'll be fun! We could make forts in the living room, like when we were kids." Bucky winced at the words, as if he knew how ridiculous they sounded.

"Are you asking me to...to...marry you?" Stevie asked, incredulous. "On the landing? On the day of my father's funeral?" She started to giggle. "And I thought you had the Barnes charm."

"Hey, it's not a terrible idea," Bucky said defensively. "We like each other. We've been friends for ages."

"Not a terrible idea?" Stevie laughed at that, a laugh without humor. "Marriage isn't...pillow forts in the living room. It'd be like a pigeon marrying a peacock!"

"Well, Miss Pigeon," Bucky said through gritted teeth, "thanks for making it clear that homelessness is preferable to marrying me. What was your plan, huh? Find a job where the boss doesn't mind that you're sick all the time?"

That was so close to what Stevie was thinking that it hurt. And what lay under the words - the assumption that she was too weak to take care of herself. That she was useless. That hurt, too.

"Not used to girls saying no to you, are you?" She replied. "You're so handsome and so charming, you can have anyone you want. I suppose I should have fallen at your feet with gratitude that you noticed me at all!" Stevie was breathing hard now, almost vibrating with rage. "Well, I don't need your pity! I'd rather make it a...alone..."

Suddenly she was crying, and Bucky was there with his arms around her. "Shh," he murmured, "I'm with you." She grabbed his shirt with both hands and sobbed into his chest. Bucky held her until the crying was done and she just stood there, leaning on him. He smelled like soap and cigarettes.

"I can't go in there," Stevie said.

"Hm?"

She pulled back and looked up at Bucky. "I can't face it, the apartment without Dad. What'll I do, Bucky?"

"That's easy," Bucky said. He gently removed Stevie's glasses - smeared and crooked from being crushed against his chest - and cleaned them on the edge of his shirt before handing them back. "Ma told me you can stay with her. I'll take care of whatever you need from the apartment. Come on."

"Thanks," Stevie said softly, putting her glasses back on. The lenses were streaky and smudged, as they always were when Bucky cleaned them for her.

"Don't mention it," he said, wearing a little half-smile, completely at ease, as if the whole embarrassing proposal had never happened. "We're friends. Till the end of the line."

Bucky's mother was happy to have Stevie stay, in fact, she was happy to let Stevie stay indefinitely. "It'll be nice having another woman around after so long living with this hooligan," she said, and swatted Bucky's arm with a dish towel.

Stevie wondered why Bucky hadn't suggested that first, instead of his awkward proposal on the landing. _The funeral must have gotten to him_, she thought, and put it out of her mind.

* * *

Notes: Thanks to all of you who have been reading and following so far! Next week, we jump into movie continuity, so chapters will get longer and we'll meet some of our old friends - or at least, my versions of them. Stay tuned!

More Notes: If you saw this earlier in the day, I apologize - some really bizarre format glitch happened and made it virtually unreadable. If anyone has suggestions about keeping that from happening, let me know.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4 - June 14, 1943

*Thanks to everyone who's been reading and following so far. I consider you all my Valentines - and hope you enjoy this belated V-Day gift.

Captain America belongs to many people - and none of them are me.

* * *

Dust motes danced in the flickering light of the projector. On the screen, images of bombed-out buildings and marching troops stood out in stark black and white, backed by the narrator's crisp diction.

"War continues to ravage Europe...but help is on the way. Every able-bodied young man is lining up to serve his country."

_And one slightly less able-bodied young woman._ Stevie thought with a sigh. Just that morning she had been rejected from the Army Nurse Corps - her fifth rejection, after the WAVEs, the WAACs, the WASPs and the SPARs. She had applied for each under a different name, in hope they wouldn't realize what she was doing, but there was no hiding the asthma, the glasses and the myriad other problems that disqualified her from military service.

_The war effort has no use for a semi-invalid with astigmatism. Big surprise there._

"Even little Timmy is doing his part, collecting scrap metal." On the screen, a gap-toothed youngster in a smaller version of a soldier's cap scrambled around a junkyard with a pack of other boys. He held up a bicycle wheel triumphantly. "Nice work, Timmy!"

_Well, there's an option._

"Who cares! Play the movie already," someone called out from in front of her. Stevie looked around for the source of the voice. Just two rows ahead, a man slouched in his seat, smiling as if he had done something witty and eating popcorn with his mouth open. _What a troglodyte. _Stevie leaned forward.

"Hey," she said softly. "Want to show some respect?" _I mean, people are only _dying _over there for you._

The narrator continued, unperturbed. "Meanwhile, overseas, our brave boys are showing the Axis powers that the price of freedom is never too high."

The troglodyte appeared not to have heard Stevie. "Let's go, get on with it!" He yelled at the screen. "Just start the cartoon!" Clearly, a more forceful approach was required.

"Hey," Stevie yelled in his direction. "You want to shut up?" He turned around angrily, but, seeing that the person calling him out was a five foot tall girl with coke-bottle glasses, he laughed.

"Why don't you make me, sweetheart?" He said, with a dismissive snort.

"Okay", said Stevie, and, standing, she tossed the full contents of her popcorn bucket directly into his stupid face.

* * *

The manager of the theater had been a sergeant major in the 2nd Durham Light Infantry in the Great War, and, though not young, was still quite capable of hauling two protesting customers out into the alley when necessary - sending them off with a warning not to return to the theater until they could be "civil." Stevie was tempted to kick a trashcan on her way out, but knew from experience that would hurt her more than anyone else.

When she got to the mouth of the alley, Bucky was waiting for her. "Sometimes I think you just like causing trouble," he said, shaking his head. He wore a brown army uniform, khaki shirt and tie, a brown cap with a gold eagle pin tilted rakishly over one eye. She had never seen him in uniform before. He looked like he had sprung from recruitment poster, handsome and polished with a confident grin. All that was missing was an American flag and a catchy slogan.

"I'll have you know, I was completely justified," she replied. "What are you doing here?" Bucky had been training for the past eight weeks at Madison Barracks upstate.

"Ma said you were watching _The Phantom_. Thought I could catch the end, but I guess that won't be happening."

"No, I mean, what are you doing _here_, so soon. You get your orders?"

Bucky nodded and held out his arms as if presenting himself onstage. "Sergeant James Barnes of the 107th. Shipping out for England first thing tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" Stevie felt a hard lump at the base of her throat. "That's...sudden." She had known this was coming ever since Bucky enlisted, but somehow it was still a shock. Now her old friend was a sergeant, he had a uniform, and in a few weeks he would be one in a line of soldiers march, march, marching off into God knew what. Marching off without her.

"Come on, Pigeon. Don't look so glum!" he said, putting his arm around her shoulders. He was bulkier now, too, she found, with new muscles from the endless push ups and drills he wrote home about. "It's my last night, so we're gonna get you dressed up and go out on the town." He steered her down the street.

"Where are we going?" Stevie asked. Bucky, obviously ready for the question, handed her a pamphlet that proclaimed _World Expo!_ in bold block lettering over a picture of a metal globe.

"The future!" said Bucky grandly, "And I got you a date."

* * *

Stevie hated going on dates. Specifically, she hated the look guys gave her when they realized _she_ was the date that famous ladies' man Bucky Barnes had set them up with. Sure, the guys Bucky found for her always _said_ they really wanted an intelligent girl with an artistic soul who could talk about serious issues - but the unspoken addition was "and who also has a figure like Dorothy Lamour."

"What'd you tell him about me?" Stevie asked Bucky warily as they approached the crowded expo center. She was wearing makeup and a second hand gingham dress that Bucky's mother had taken in for her, all of which made her feel like she was pretending to be someone else - someone who didn't have passionate arguments about the virtues of the tower shield versus the kite shield in a combat situation.

"Only the good stuff," Bucky said, which was not very reassuring, in Stevie's opinion. He had acquired his date, a cheerful brunette with a sweet, heart-shaped face and big brown eyes. She hung on his arm, as if she had known him far longer than a few hours.

"And there he is. Bill!" Bucky waved to a young man standing at the base of a lamp post. If Bucky looked like a recruitment poster in his uniform, Bill looked more like a caricature in his - skinny, young, rumpled, and a bit daffy-looking, with an unsuccessful blond mustache.

_Here it comes,_ thought Stevie as Bill looked first at Bucky's date, and then at her. It was almost comical, how his expression fell. She met his look of disappointment with a wry smile. _You aren't exactly Gary Cooper yourself, buddy._

If Bill was a disappointment, the fairgrounds and the Modern Marvels Pavilion was anything but. A train, somehow suspended _below_ an elevated rail, curved dramatically around a giant, metal globe. Spotlights streamed up into the sky from futuristic buildings that looked like they came straight from the pages of _Astounding Science Fiction Monthly_. Inside the pavilion, Stevie walked behind Bill and Bucky and Bucky's date, gawking at three-dimensional cross sections of the earth, mannequins in space suits, and a giant tank holding a scale model of an underwater city. The difference between the pavilion and that afternoon's filmstrip, with its images of European monuments reduced to rubble, was jarring. The future and the present. Hope and fear.

Bucky's date was pulling him forward towards a stage where a sleek, red sportscar stood, decoratively surrounded by women in chorus-girl attire - sparkly tuxedo tops and tights.

"Ladies and gentlemen," said one of the tuxedo girls into a large microphone, "The mind behind the Expo, the world-renowned inventor - Mr. Howard Stark!"

Bucky's date squealed and clapped as Mr. Stark strode on stage, a suave man in a sharp suit, with oiled black hair, a pencil mustache and the swagger of a man who had gotten everything he wanted for most of his life. Before taking the microphone from his chorus girl announcer, he gave her a kiss on the lips that almost dislodged her top hat. Stevie rolled her eyes. She had precisely zero desire to see Howard Stark showboating.

"I'm going to get some Cracker Jack," she said to Bill, who had been doing his best to ignore her since they met. "Want any?" His eyes were still glued to Bucky's date. "Good."

* * *

Stevie had noticed the recruitment station on the way in, and now she stood in front of it, wondering if, in her case, the sixth time would be the charm. On the men's side, there was a special, full length poster of a uniformed soldier without a face. Thanks to a trick of mirrors and lighting, a man who stood in front of it would see his own face beaming out from under the helmet. By the smaller, women's entrance, there was a poster of a smiling woman in uniform, carrying a pack.

_This is my war, too_, the poster said.

"Damn right," Stevie muttered, and strode into the lobby. She introduced herself to the woman at the reception table, only to turn around and find Bucky behind her. _Good grief, that was fast. _Did he have eyes in the back of his head or something?

"Kind of missing the point of a double date," he said. "We were going to go dancing."

"You go ahead," said Stevie. "I'll catch up with you."

"You really gonna do this again?" he asked.

"Well, it is a fair," said Stevie lightly. "I thought I'd try my luck."

"With who? As who?" said Bucky, "You've tried literally everywhere." He pulled her away from the reception desk and lowered his voice. "Ma told me you went to your last appointment as 'Jane from Ohio.' That's illegal, Stevie. They could catch you. Or worse, they could take you."

"Look, I know you're worried," said Stevie. "But it's not like I'd be on the front lines! I know I can't fight, I just want to help."

"Then help here."

"Doing what? Collecting scrap metal? Knitting socks?" Stevie had forgotten about being quiet. The receptionist was openly staring, as was a short, balding man in a white coat, probably one of the doctors. "There are men laying down their lives over there. If I can't do that, then I have to do the best I can to help them. And that isn't sitting in a factory, Bucky. I know I can do more."

Normally, at this point, he would argue, but instead he looked at her with a wistful smile that struck Stevie speechless. "You've got nothing to prove," he said.

"Hey, Barnes," Bucky's date was waiting on the stairs. "Are we going dancing?"

"Yes, we are," he called back. "Sure you're not coming?" He asked Stevie.

She shook her head. "Should we see you off at the station tomorrow?"

"I hate big goodbyes," Bucky said. "Don't do anything stupid until I get back, okay?"

"How can I?" Stevie said sweetly. "You're taking all the stupid with you."

Bucky ruffled her hair. "Pigeon."

She swatted his hand. "You're such a jerk," she said, and he folded her into a sudden hug.

"Write me, okay?" He said. Stevie heard something beneath the words. Something like worry, like tension, like the beginning of fear. That couldn't be right. Bucky wasn't afraid of anything.

"Of course."

And then he stepped away from her, all smiles and charm again. "Come on Liz," he said, holding out an arm to the girl on the stairs. "They're playing our song."

* * *

Stevie sat in one of the exam areas, behind a white curtain. She had been waiting what seemed like an unusually long time, which worried her. What had the receptionist overheard? Did they know about Jane from Ohio? She was debating whether to just slip out the back when the curtain opened, admitting the same short, balding man she had seen in the lobby, carrying a file and a dog-eared notebook. His fringe of graying hair stood out from his head like dandelion fluff and his chin bore several days growth of salt-and-pepper beard.

"So," he said brusquely. "You want to join the Women's Reserve." He had a clipped, Teutonic accent. Was he…German? It seemed rude to ask.

"Yes, I do," she said, and tried to sit up straighter so she wouldn't look so short. The doctor peered at her intently through a pair of spectacles almost as thick as her own.

"I am Doctor Abraham Erskine. I represent Strategic Scientific Research," he said. Stevie had never heard of it. "And I am German. Does this trouble you?"

She shook her head. "I'm Stephanie Rogers," she said.

"Are you?" He opened the file he was carrying and began flipping through pages. "Or is it Jane from Ohio? Or Mary from New Haven? Five exams under five different names."

_Damn._ "Um…" Stevie said, "That might not be the right file…"

Dr. Erskine directed a sharp look at Stevie. "It's not the exams I'm interested in. It's the five tries."

_What does that mean?_ Stevie thought. She was finding it hard to tell whether or not she was in trouble.

"So, back to the Women's Reserve," he continued. "You want excitement, adventure, maybe a little romance, yes? To prove yourself, and be able to write impressive letters back to friends and family at home? Who knows, you might even get to kill a Nazi." He said that as if it were a treat, or a prize she could win.

"What? No!" Stevie felt like she had been insulted. The doctor was watching her from behind his spectacles, waiting to see what she would say, what she would do.

"Is this some kind of test?" She asked.

"Yes," the doctor said flatly.

"I'm not in it for excitement, or...romance. God, no. And I definitely don't want to...to kill anybody," Stevie paused to think. If this was a test, she was going to tell him the unvarnished truth and hope it was enough. "I don't like bullies. I don't care where they're from. I just want to do my bit. I want to help."

Dr. Erskine studied her for a long moment, and then he smiled.

"Well," he said. "There are already so many big men fighting this war. Maybe what we need now is a small girl."

"Huh?" That was just about the last response Stevie had expected.

Dr. Erskine was filling out a form. "I can offer you a chance," he said. "Only a chance."

"I'll take it," Stevie said immediately.

"Good," the doctor gave her the form. It was stamped 1-A. Fit for duty.

* * *

Notes: Here we are - in the movie timeline! What exciting stuff is on the way!

My sister, a German scholar (who goes by Hey Gal on the Something Awful forums - check her out), informed me that Erskine is not a German name, and dangit, she's right! It's Scottish. So now, in my mind, Erskine's grandfather was Scottish.

Also, as the story proceeds, you may wonder how I know what dates things are happening. The awesome Marvel Cinematic Universe Timeline is the answer! And a great resource for all writers of MCU fanfiction. It's over at the Marvel Cinematic Universe Wiki.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5 - June 15-21, Camp Lejeune

* * *

_Dear Bucky,_

_Surprise, surprise - I've been accepted to the USMC Women's Reserve! I am now a Marinette. But don't worry your pretty head - I'll be working stateside as a radio operator, or maybe a code-breaker if I'm lucky. When you picture me, imagine me in an office, hunched over a radio. _

Here, she drew an exaggerated doodle of herself at a desk, wearing a giant pair of headphones and surrounded by teetering mountains of paperwork.

_Or you can picture me hunched over by the side of the road, puking my guts out. Why didn't didn't you tell me training was so hard!? Also, I'm not sure the food is real. Was it ever alive or do they just churn it out in a factory in Newark?_

She closed with a sketch of a Marinette color guard - herself standing at the end with messy braids and thick spectacles, beating a snare drum.

_D__on't win the war before I'm done._

_Stevie_

* * *

Stevie didn't like lying to Bucky, even by omission, but she had been strictly warned not to tell anyone why she was really at Camp Lejeune. Even the Marine recruits and the other Marinettes in training at the camp didn't know what the eleven "special trainees" were engaged in - a top secret operation called "Project Rebirth." The morning after Stevie had arrived, the drill sergeant had lined them up on one corner of the parade ground - ten tall, athletic women - and Stevie at the end, half a head shorter than the rest. It was early and the day was cool, with a breeze blowing in from the sea. They were wearing loose pants and shirts that reminded Stevie of men's fatigues, which gave her the sinking suspicion that they would be doing a lot of calisthenics. _Well, you did sign up for the Marines, _Stevie told herself. _What did you expect? _Just as she had this thought, a jeep pulled up in front of them and the sergeant barked out, "Attention!"

Stevie and the rest of the trainees snapped straight. Three people emerged from the car. The first was Dr. Erskine, bearing a clipboard and the what looked like the same battered notebook he had been carrying in the recruitment center. He greeted Stevie with a smile and a small wave. The second person to leave the car was a colonel who reminded Stevie of a hunting hound - droopy and displeased. The third was a woman. She wore a uniform like the Marinettes wore - tailored brown jacket and an A-line skirt cut just below the knee - but on her it looked as elegant as the latest New York fashions. Her lips were rogued, and her dark hair fell in soft, movie-star curls around her face. She and the Colonel stopped in front of the group, while Dr. Erskine held back, clipboard at the ready.

"At ease, ladies," said the colonel, in a voice with a mild twang that might have been Texan. "I am Colonel Phillips." He gestured towards the woman. "This is Agent Carter." He began pacing slowly in front of the trainees, looking intently at each one. "General Patton has said, 'wars are fought with weapons, but they are won by men.' We are going to win this war because we have the best men." He stopped in front of Stevie and did a double take, his smooth speech faltering for a moment. "And you are going to help them get better. Much better."

He had reached the center of the line again and stopped pacing, facing them with his arms behind his back. "The Strategic Scientific Reserve is an allied effort, made up of the best minds of the free world." Here he nodded at Dr. Erskine. "Our goal is to create the best army in history. But every army has to start somewhere."

He looked out at them, his brown eyes piercing in his wrinkled face. "By volunteering for this program, you ladies are freeing our servicemen to fight while we develop and perfect Project Rebirth. At the end of this week, one of you will be chosen to be the first to undergo the process that will create a new breed of super soldiers - soldiers who will personally escort Adolf Hitler through the gates of Hell."

Stevie felt her pulse quicken. This was exactly the kind of work she had wanted to do for the war effort - real, meaningful work. Work that could help save the lives of the boys fighting overseas. She silently promised that she would give her all to this project, no matter how hard it was. But very soon she was struggling to see why she had been chosen for Project Rebirth at all.

* * *

Day one of training - or, more appropriately, testing - consisted of physical drills as Stevie had suspected - running, calisthenics, and obstacle courses that left her wheezing, retching, or in one embarrassing case, fainting. Stevie's fellow recruits, on the other hand, were more than up to the task. The group of ten assorted swimmers, runners and gymnasts bounded through each challenge like a herd of lithe gazelles. But despite being unified by a common purpose, the group of special trainees was not entirely harmonious.

The final challenge of the day was a sprint along the beach that formed the eastern border of Camp Lejeune. The other trainees had already made it to the halfway point and were turning back, coming towards Stevie as she panted and puffed, mired in the wet sand. The front runner, Alice Hodge, had run hurdles in the 1936 Olympics. Though deceptively petite, almost delicate-looking, she was clearly one of the strongest recruits and had come in first or second in every test so far. This time, though, it looked like she might lose her first-place slot; a tall, muscular blonde was gaining on her, and as they approached Stevie, the blonde and Alice were neck and neck. Then, Alice put out her foot and sent the blonde tumbling into the sand.

Stevie jogged over to her. "Are...you...alright?" she said, in between gasps.

The blonde stood up and brushed herself off. "I think so," she said. She tested her weight on her right foot and frowned. "I don't think it's sprained.'

Both women looked toward the finish line, where Alice was getting a pat on the back from Colonel Phillips. _What is her problem?_ Stevie thought.

"Pick it up ladies!" Colonel Phillips called. "Rogers! Move it!"

"Thanks," the blonde said quickly, and joined the other trainees as they thundered past.

Stevie looked at the long trudge ahead of her and groaned.

* * *

Night at the camp was...different. Stevie had never spent the night outside of Brooklyn, and the various hoots, chirps and squawks coming from the pine forest around the barracks seemed eerie and sinister. Stevie wondered if there were still wolves out there. Or bears.

_I thought nature was supposed to be quiet and peaceful_, Stevie thought, shivering. The stars were spectacularly bright, compared to the faint, washed-out stars that made it past the lights of the city. They looked close enough to touch.

_Ah, there she is._

Alice was leaning against the back wall of the barracks, looking out into the trees. She had ducked away after lights-out for a smoke, a risky proposition if she was caught, but it meant Stevie could talk to her alone.

"I saw what you did," Stevie said.

"Beg pardon?" Alice didn't even look at her.

"I saw you trip Helen on the beach."

"Oh," said Alice, unconcerned. "That." She continued smoking, staring at the dark forest. Stevie felt her anger rising in her chest.

"I just don't get it," Stevie said, "You're really, really good already. You're probably the best of the bunch. Why would you do something like that? Helen could have turned her ankle!"

Now Alice did look at her - as if she had crawled out from under a rock. "I wouldn't expect you to understand," she said, infusing the word "you" with so much condescension that Stevie felt the momentary urge to slap her.

"I didn't get where I am by being nice," Alice continued. "I got to the Olympics because I did everything and anything it took. _Everything_." Stevie saw something in Alice's eyes that surpassed mere determination. Something like mania.

"But we're all on the same team!" Stevie said.

"Wrong," said Alice, and flicked glowing sparks from her cigarette. "They'll pick one of us. One. And the woman they pick will win the ultimate prize. She'll be the first of a superior race." Alice's eyes glowed in the night. "That's a once in a lifetime chance, and I am not letting it slip by. If the others want it, they'll just have to fight for it. Harder than I can."

Stevie couldn't think of anything to say to counter Alice's naked ambition, so she just stared at her.

"You know," Alice continued, "At first I couldn't figure out why they chose you for the project."

_You and me both_, Stevie thought.

"Do you know what I think now?" Alice leaned in to look Stevie in the face. Stevie shook her head. "I think you're a mole. You look so harmless no one would suspect you, but you're going to go and tell the Colonel and the doctor everything we say and do when they're not around. One more part of the test." She took another drag. The smoke was stinging Stevie's throat, and she fought the urge to cough. "So. Are you going to tell Colonel Phillips what you saw me do?"

Stevie had considered it, but Colonel Phillips seemed like the type who would expect trainees to fight their own battles.

"I don't think he'd take kindly to tattling," Stevie said.

"Good," Alice dropped her cigarette and ground it out under her foot. She turned to go in, then stopped, and turned back to Stevie.

"Look, Cindy, is it?" Alice said.

"Stevie," she corrected, through gritted teeth.

"Stay out of my way, Stevie."

* * *

While day one consisted of physical tests, day two consisted of mental tests - tests of teamwork, problem solving, and lateral thinking, supervised by the watchful and silent Agent Carter. Stevie excelled at them, but Alice was merely average - a fact the seemed to make her quietly furious. The evening in the mess hall, someone bumped into Stevie so hard that she dropped her tray. Colonel Phillips sighed and muttered something that didn't sound appropriate for mixed company.

Day three consisted of marksmanship training - trainees shot at paper targets using rifles, handguns, even Tommy guns, which Stevie had always associated with gangster movies. A few of the trainees were already experienced hunters, and others were quick learners; but Stevie was awkward enough to be dangerous. After she almost put a hole through the instructor who was teaching her how to hold a revolver, Colonel Phillips parked her at the edge of the firing range with an M1 rifle and a target so far out of Stevie's myopic range of vision that she could only speculate if she was hitting it or not. There was no speculation about the bruise growing on Stevie's shoulder, though. The M1 had one hell of a kick.

"You're not holding it right," said a soft, British voice behind her.

Stevie turned - after carefully putting down the gun; Colonel Phillips had strictly ordered her not to kill anyone. It was the woman in uniform - Agent Carter. She had spoken so little until this point that Stevie hadn't realized she was English.

"May I show you?" Agent Carter's voice was as polished as the rest of her, melodious and cultured. Stevie handed her the M1, and Agent Carter lifted it smoothly to her shoulder, pointing it at the distant target.

"Square yourself up to what you're shooting at, don't come at it from the side. Stand with your feet apart and stagger your right foot a little behind your left," Agent Carter demonstrated the stance and she talked. She was obviously experienced. "Hold the rifle stock near the center of your body, high up on your chest, and keep your elbows down. That will minimize the recoil. Here," She handed the rifle back to Stevie. "Have a go."

"Okay," Stevie tried to imitate what Agent Carter had just shown her, feeling more awkward than ever in front of this confident, skilled woman who was just about everything that Stevie herself was not.

"Good!" Agent Carter said. "Look through the ring and try center your front sight in it." Stevie squinted one eye shut. The ring of the rear sight blurred as she focused on the metal knob that was the front sight.

Agent Carter continued. "Now, aim the front sight just underneath the target."

"Got it," Stevie said. The target was 200 yards away, within the M1's range, but pretty much a dot to Stevie. She tried to aim in the general vicinity of the printed red circle.

"Alright," Agent Carter said calmly, "now press the trigger steadily, straight to the rear. Don't anticipate when the gun will fire. Just concentrate on squeezing the trigger."

Stevie took a deep breath, held it, and squeezed - trying to relax and not jerk in anticipation of the shot. The gun went off with a deafening crack and she let out her breath in a rush. She wasn't sure she was any more accurate, but at least she no longer felt like she was getting kicked in the shoulder by a horse.

"Very good!" said Agent Carter, with a smile that had probably left a trail of broken hearts all over London or wherever she was from. _Just the kind of girl Bucky would love,_ Stevie thought. She imagined what Bucky would say about her own piss-poor shooting performance. He was a natural marksman, and had trained as a sniper before shipping out - part of the reason he left training as a sergeant instead of a lowly private. Thinking of Bucky gave Stevie a sudden pang of loneliness.

Agent Carter made Stevie take five more shots before they went to check the target, where Stevie was happy to see six bullet holes - if not in the bullseye, or even on the red circle, at least on the square of the target itself.

"You really know your stuff," Stevie said to Agent Carter, as they walked back to where the other trainees were on the main firing range. Agent Carter was confident that Stevie could learn to shoot a handgun now without unintentionally maiming anybody.

"Yes," Agent Carter replied. "My father would hold a hunt at the estate every November. Pheasants, mostly."

"Oh," said Stevie. There was an awkward pause in which she wondered exactly how much money one had to make before one had an "estate" instead of just a house. "I have more experience with pigeons myself. Not shooting them, you understand. Primarily just tossing bread crumbs in their general direction."

Another awkward pause descended. Stevie had never been very good at having female friends; she never seemed to know what to talk about. Most girls in Brooklyn hadn't cared about military history. Agent Carter looked like she might, though. Stevie cleared her throat.

"So, if you don't mind me asking," Stevie said, "How did you get from the estate and the pheasants to Camp Lejeune, Jacksonville, North Carolina?"

"My family wanted to do their bit, so they volunteered the house to be used as a hospital for wounded airmen," Agent Carter said.

_Her house is big enough to be a hospital,_ thought Stevie, picturing the cramped apartment she shared with Bucky's mother in Brooklyn.

"I had never seen anything like what I saw there," Agent Carter said softly, looking out past the camp, to another place and time. "The men had all survived being shot down, but at terrible cost. They had limbs missing, horrible burns. They woke up at night screaming and weeping." She shook her head slightly as if trying to dislodge the memories.

"Instead of holding their hands and wiping their fevered brows, I thought it would be a damned sight more efficient to stop them getting shot up in the first place. So I thoroughly irritated quite a few important people until the Special Air Service agreed to have me. Ah, here we are."

They had reached the handgun range, where Stevie's former instructor, upon seeing her, decided he had urgent business elsewhere.

"Well," Agent Carter said. "Now that you have the rifle down, I'm sure you'll take to the sidearms just 's really nothing to it." Drawing her own sidearm, she promptly discharged five shots into the dead center of the nearest target.

"Nothing to it," Stevie agreed weakly.

* * *

Day four was hand to hand combat training - led, surprisingly, by the genteel Agent Carter - who, despite her impeccable manners, was just as stern in her way as the Colonel was in his. When Alice muttered that "Queen Victoria over there sure was a stuck up bitch," Agent Carter didn't show any sign of overhearing, but suddenly Alice became Agent Carter's assistant in demonstrating joint locks, throws, and, in one memorable example, how to knock an opponent down with one punch.

_Yup_, thought Stevie. _She's just Bucky's type._

Day five and six were filled with tactical exercises and - joy of joys - more obstacle courses. At this point, Stevie lived in an exhausted haze, her main hopes to not faint again and not run afoul of Alice. Whether or not she still thought Stevie was a spy for the Colonel, harassing her seemed to help Alice deal with the stress of training, and so, as day seven approached, Alice become more hostile. The night after Agent Carter had knocked Alice down, Stevie's hairbrush and toothbrush had mysteriously disappeared, leaving her to beg and borrow from the other trainees. When everyone had to crawl under barbed wire in full gear, Alice had "accidentally" kicked over a support beam, trapping Stevie in a snarl of wire and wood. Colonel Phillips had pulled her out with a long-suffering sigh.

Day seven dawned clear and hot. Everyone knew that this was the day that the Colonel, Dr. Erskine, and Agent Carter would make their decision, and an atmosphere of nervous energy permeated the group. Agent Carter had been putting them through drills all morning and now they were on the parade ground, trying to complete as many push ups, squat thrusts and jumping jacks as possible while she timed them with a stopwatch.

"Faster, ladies, come on!" She said. "My grandmother has more life in her, God rest her soul."

For all Agent Carter's exhortations, Stevie got the impression that her heart wasn't in it. They were just marking time. Agent Carter, like the rest of the group, was waiting to find out who had been chosen, watching Colonel Phillips and Dr. Erskine out the corner of her eye. The Colonel and the Doctor were standing a ways apart from the group - having an argument by the look of things. Stevie caught a few words as she struggled through an interminable set of push ups.

"Never thought you'd pick her." That was the colonel's Texas twang.

"I am looking for qualities beyond the physical." That was Dr. Erskine's clipped, German accent.

"Do you know how long it took to set up this project?" The Colonel countered. "How much groveling I had to do…." The next few words were drowned out by Agent Carter ordering them to get up and begin another endless set of jumping jacks. The Colonel continued.

"Alice Hodge passed every test we gave her. She's strong, she's fast."

"She's a bully," said Dr. Erskine.

"You don't win wars with niceness, Doctor," the colonel said. "You win wars with guts."

And then metal object, about the size of a man's fist, fell to earth in the center of the trainees' ranks. Everyone stared at it stupidly for a second. It looked a little like a pine cone.

_Wait,_ Stevie thought, _Is that a…_

"Grenade!"

The trainees scattered like pigeons fleeing an oncoming bus. Shrieks filled the air as they scrambled for cover, Alice vaulting over the hood of a jeep, other trainees running to get behind troop carriers or even just hummocks of dirt. Stevie did not run. She felt like time had slowed down, like she could see everything with perfect clarity. The trainees and Agent Carter wouldn't be able to get to cover in time. They would be hurt. Some would be killed. There was only one solution.

Stevie threw herself to the ground and curled around the grenade as tightly as she could, like a running back protecting a football.

"Get back!" she cried. She didn't know if her meager bulk would be enough to completely contain the explosion.

Stevie's whole body felt like one clenched fist as she waited for the grenade to go off. Would it hurt? Would she feel it at all? Would Bucky ever find out what happened to her? She squeezed her eyes shut and heard her own heartbeat pounding in her ears - one, two, three, four….Shouldn't it have exploded by now? She opened her eyes again. Colonel Phillips and Dr. Erskine were standing over her - the Colonel looking exasperated, the doctor smiling almost smugly. Stevie felt a rush of relief - mixed with confusion.

"Is this a test?" She asked.

The Colonel turned to Dr. Erskine instead of answering her. "She's still skinny," he said, and stomped away, leaving the doctor to tell Stevie that she had been chosen to be the test subject for Project Rebirth.

* * *

**Note: **Thanks to all you fine people for reading and reviewing! Peggy's instructions about firing a rifle come from The Art of Manliness blog article "How to Fire a Rifle" - because I know nothing about guns. **  
**


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6 - June 22, 1943

Note: In this chapter we get to know one of my new favorite characters - Peggy Carter. Are you watching Marvel's Agent Carter? Because you should be.

* * *

_Dear Bucky,_

_By the time you read this, I'll be…_

Stevie wondered what to write. _I'll be different?_ _I'll be taller?_ If the project didn't go as planned, she could end up worse than she was now. Or dead. She tore the page out of her sketchbook and crumpled it. The whole project was classified anyway; she'd probably never be allowed to send any letter she did write.

_Well, if it works, Bucky will be very surprised when he comes back_, she thought.

Stevie was sitting on her cot in the empty barracks. It was late afternoon and she had already packed up the rest of her things, to be ready to leave that night. The Colonel had said the test would take place the next morning, somewhere several hours travel from Camp Lejeune, so she would be travelling through the night. The ten other trainees had been folded into the regular Marinette training program, off to become radio operators, code breakers and mechanics. Alice had left with good grace - Stevie had almost expected her to throw a punch, but Alice had just looked at her in passing, a look that blended anger with profound disappointment. Stevie had almost felt sorry for her.

There was a soft knock. Dr. Erskine stood in the doorway with a bottle of something golden-brown and a pair of what looked like stubby wine glasses.

"May I?" He asked.

"Sure," said Stevie, gesturing at the cot in front of her. He sat down and put the glasses and bottle on the foot locker. She felt all her unanswered questions well up inside her. Why had he picked her at the World Expo? Why had he championed her to the Colonel? Why had he chosen her to be the test subject?

Stevie gathered her courage. "Can I ask you a question?"

"Just one?" The doctor arched an eyebrow.

"Why me?"

The doctor nodded. "I suppose that is the one question that matters." He picked up the bottle and held it to the light. "This is from Augsburg," he said. "My city." In those two words, Stevie heard an untold story of loss and pain. The doctor continued.

"So many people forget that the first country the Nazis invaded was their own. After the last war, they felt…weak. They felt slow. Then Hitler comes along with the marching and the big show and the flags and all that." The curl of his lip underscored his tone of contempt.

"And he hears of me. My work. And he finds me." Fear. That was what Stevie saw in the doctor's face now. "Then he says, you." He pointed at Stevie, the gesture of a remembered conversation. "He says, you will make us strong. Well, I am not interested, so he sends the head of Hydra - the Nazi research division - a brilliant scientist by the name of Johann Schmidt."

If his mention of Hitler carried fear, mentioning Schmidt seemed to evoke something worse. A shadow of terror hung over the doctor when he spoke that name.

"Now Schmidt is a member of the inner circle, and he's ambitious. Even Hitler shares his passion for occult power and Teutonic myth. Hitler uses these fantasies to inspire his followers, but for Schmidt it is not fantasy. For him, it is real. He has become convinced that is great power hidden in the earth, left here by the gods, waiting to be seized by superior men."

Doctor Erskine clenched his fist, as if miming the act of seizing power from the earth. Stevie felt a shiver run through her. She had been getting an impression of how big the war was, but now she realized that it was also curiously small. That the fate of the world was hanging upon the mad whims of a few men.

"When Schmidt found my formula and what it can do," the Doctor continued, "he cannot resist. He wants to become the superior man."

_This formula's already been used?_ Stevie hadn't known that. "Did it make him stronger?" she asked.

Doctor Erskine nodded. "_Ja_," he said, somberly. "But it has...other effects."

_That doesn't sound good._

"The serum wasn't ready. But more important, the man." Doctor Erskine looked at Stevie, his brown eyes as searching as they had been in the recruiting station. "The serum amplifies everything that is inside, so good becomes great. Bad becomes worse." He pointed at her.

"That is why you were chosen," he said. "Because the strong, who have known power all their lives, they lose respect for that power. But the weak know the value of strength. The value of mercy, and compassion."

He had said those last words in a tone of unshakeable confidence, and Stevie realized he was talking about her. He trusted her enough to give her the serum, and believed that she was good enough to make it work. That he believed in her precisely because she was an utter weakling spoiled the moment only a little.

"Thanks," Stevie said. "I think."

Doctor Erskine nodded and fiddled with the bottle, removing a wire cap and pulling out the cork with a soft pop. He handed Stevie one of the glasses and poured a little of the golden liqueur into its round bowl, then poured a glass for himself, raising it as if making a toast.

"Whatever happens tomorrow," he said, "you must promise me one thing."

Stevie nodded. The doctor smiled at her warmly.

"Promise that you will stay who you are. Not a perfect soldier, but a good person. A kind woman."

Stevie smiled back. "I'll drink to that," she said, and raised her glass to touch his. She took a healthy swallow, thinking something that looked so much like a butterscotch hard candy probably tasted just as smooth. It hit the back of her throat like a hot coal and burned all the way down.

"Are you alright?" The doctor asked.

"Fine," Stevie choked out between coughs. "Strong stuff."

He chuckled. "Why don't I have the rest of that," he said, taking her glass from her gently.

As Stevie cleared her throat - relieved to find the lining still intact - Doctor Erskine drained her glass and his own in a few quick gulps, winked at her conspiratorially, and left with the bottle.

* * *

They left at sunset in separate cars - Stevie with Agent Carter and Doctor Erskine with the Colonel. Agent Carter told Stevie that they would drive different routes to their destination to throw off potential followers. As to where they were going, Agent Carter wouldn't tell.

"You'll know it when you see it," was all she said. She also said the drive would take all night and Stevie was free to sleep if she wanted to.

"I don't think I can," Stevie said. "Got the jitters, I guess."

"Me too," said Agent Carter. She was driving the car herself. When Stevie asked her about it she said she had started out as a driver - shuttling officers around - and that she had developed a taste for it. "Driving relaxes me," she said.

"Is that how you met all those important people you convinced to let you join the army?" Stevie asked.

"Ah," said Agent Carter. "Well reasoned. Yes, I did use the opportunity to try to convince the higher-ups that my skills were better suited to field work. Mostly they just gave me the brush off." She smiled at Stevie, "You'll never guess who finally gave me my chance."

Stevie shook her head.

"It was Colonel Phillips," Agent Carter said.

"No!" Stevie replied. "He seems so - disapproving. Of everything."

Agent Carter nodded. "The Strategic Scientific Research division was just getting started and he was its American liaison. They had recently secured the support of Howard Stark - you know, the inventor?"

Stevie nodded. How could she forget the World Expo and the tuxedo girls?

"Even so, They were scrambling for funds, for personnel. I found out that they needed an operative for an urgent mission, someone who could speak German without an accent."

"And let me guess," said Stevie. "You can."

"_Natürlich_," she said. "No one wanted to give up one of their people for an operation with so little chance of success run by a division no one had heard of, but I was able, and available, so Colonel Phillips was forced to send me or give up."

Stevie was eaten up by curiosity. "What was the operation? If it's not classified, I mean."

"Not anymore" said Agent Carter, and seemed to deliberate with herself before grinning. "Why not? I don't get many opportunities to toot my own horn. And telling you will keep me from falling asleep at the wheel."

* * *

Interlude - November, 1940 - Castle Kaufmann - The Bavarian Alps

* * *

Castle Kaufmann brooded above her as Peggy Carter negotiated the hairpin turns of the mountain road. The manor she grew up in had been quite large, but Castle Kaufmann was a mad medievalist's fantasy of turrets and colonnades, with almost 200 rooms. In its heyday it would have housed the Kaufmann family and their many servants, but now it was the home and base of operations for Johann Schmidt - the head of the Nazi scientific research program known as Hydra - and the prison where he held his captive scientist, Doctor Abraham Erskine. Peggy had reached the intricate wrought iron gate that marked the beginning of the long, curving cobblestone drive. A young, bored, SS officer leaned against the wall of the gatehouse.

"Hello, Gunter," called Peggy.

The young man's face brightened. "Eva!" he said, sauntering up to her lowered window. "Did you have any trouble getting to town? I don't like how they make you scramble up and down that goat path they call a road, running errands for them."

"It's no trouble at all," she said. "I like the drive." Karl, the chauffeur, had been happy to find that the new maid could handle a car - he was getting on in years, and with his arthritic knees, trips to town were both painful and dangerous. It suited Peggy just fine - while "Eva" the maid ran errands, Peggy could make arrangements with her contacts in the village.

"You're so modern, Eva." Gunter smiled at her. "Did you bring me a gift from the village? If you did not, I will accept a kiss in exchange for opening the gate."

Peggy giggled girlishly and suppressed the urge to run over his foot. "Of course I brought you something. Close your eyes."

Gunter obediently closed them, and Peggy pulled a treasure out of the parcels and bags on the passenger seat - a perfect, pink apple. "Now, open."

Gunter's joy was childlike. "You're a magician!" He cried, seizing the fruit and kissing it. "Where did you get it?"

"A magician never reveals her secrets," Peggy said, mysteriously, and a grinning Gunter waved her through the gate.

It was easy enough - grocers and bakers liked having a pretty young girl to listen to them and sometimes help them around the shop. And with little treats like this, she could make sure that Gunter never found what she was really carrying - under the hams and sacks of potatoes she had brought in extra sets of clothes, false moustaches, forged ID papers, and everything else she would need to smuggle Doctor Erskine to safety. Now all she needed was the right moment - the chance to get him out of the castle unseen. So far, though, she hadn't even been able to talk to him - the Doctor was shuffled between the laboratory and his rooms under guard.

Peggy handed the car over to Karl at the garage and hauled the sacks and boxes into the castle, rejecting the aging chauffeur's gallant offer to help. It wouldn't do for him to see her hide one of her parcels behind a hidden panel in the wall of the mudroom, just inside the servants' entrance. By the time she turned twelve, Peggy had found all the secret passages and priest holes in her family's manor, and it hadn't taken her long to find this gem - a servant's staircase running up the wall from the ground floor to the master suite. When Peggy had found it, it had been thick with dust, unused perhaps for decades. It was the perfect place to store her contraband, and, hopefully, the perfect escape route for herself and Dr. Erskine when the time was right. Peggy hung up her coat and dusted off her black dress and white apron carefully before bringing the rest of the packages to Ingrid, the cook.

"Oh, thank you, dear," Ingrid said as she entered, surrounded as usual by baked goods and clouds of fragrant steam. "You're an angel, going shopping for me on what should be your half holiday."

"No trouble," Peggy said with a smile. Servants were the best source of information in a large house, and a little help could win lasting loyalty. She lowered her voice. "How is...he...today?"

The servants talked about Johann Schmidt like this, indirectly and with fear. Schmidt had gained possession of Castle Kaufmann recently, rumor had it, by murdering Graf Ernst Kaufmann in a military coup that had also gotten him control of Kaufmann's Special Weapons division. The servants, in a display of feudal loyalty, hated him immediately - why, Schmidt, that _Saupreiẞ_, wasn't even Bavarian! - but those who had complained loudest had disappeared overnight, leaving no trace. After that, the other servants kept their complaints to themselves.

Ingrid shook her head. "He's in a black mood," she said, whispering, as if Schmidt could hear her through the thick stone walls. "Very bad. I think his 'guest' is giving him trouble again."

Peggy tutted sympathetically. Ingrid frowned. "And, on today of all days, Heike is ill. I was just about to take his supper up myself, but…"

Ingrid was, like any respectable cook, a large woman of a certain age, and the many flights of stairs between the kitchen and Schmidt's might as well be Mount Everest.

"I'll do it," said Peggy, trying not to sound eager. She had gleaned as much information on Schmidt as she could, but with him shut up in his study or badgering Doctor Erskine in the lab, she hadn't had much opportunity. Ingrid praised her lavishly and promised her an apple turnover upon her return.

Schmidt's study was on one of the castle's higher floors. The hall leading up to it was lined by tall windows that offered a spectacular view of the snow-covered peaks outside - and a freezing draft from the November wind that seeped in through every gap. The guard outside the study door was not young or smiling like Gunter. One of Schmidt's personal guards, his face was as blank as a carved mask.

"Supper for Herr Schmidt," she said, eyes downcast, and he let her in.

Peggy entered cautiously, but Schmidt was not inside. She heard voices coming from behind an inner door - a study within a study? Peggy supposed it made sense in a building as baroque and over-designed as Castle Kaufmann. The study was large, with floor-to-ceiling shelves on two walls and mullioned windows on the third. A fire roared in the huge fireplace, to limited effect, and a heavy wooden table filled the center of the room. Peggy carefully set her tray on it so that she could look around. The shelves had once held the Kaufmann family library, but many of those volumes had been removed to make room for Schmidt's personal collection - tomes in some languages Peggy didn't know and some she didn't even recognize. One looked like it had been written in runes. The table itself was covered in maps - some old, some new - marked with circles, arrows and annotations in red pen. The maps were all of Nordic countries; Denmark, Norway, Finland; and it looked to Peggy as if Schmidt were trying to correlate locations on the old ones with modern towns and cities. Peggy shifted a map aside and saw that Schmidt had left a book underneath it, a leather-bound volume, so old its pages were vellum instead of paper. The book was open at an illustration, still stunningly bright despite the book's obvious age - a man with one eye holding a small blue box, beams of light emerging from it to strike cowering figures below. The illustration seemed to shift and move as she looked at it, the script around its border coiling and uncoiling like a snake. Peggy blinked.

_The fire must be playing tricks with my eyes_, she thought. The voices behind the door grew louder.

"You are stalling, Doctor." That was Schmidt's voice, cold and dangerous. Doctor? Could he be speaking to Doctor Erskine?

_Now's my chance_.

Peggy tore the corner off an already battered map, and jotted a note with Schmidt's red pen.

_I am an Allied agent. We are arranging your escape. Be ready._

She crumpled the note and held it loosely in her palm, then moved silently to stand just outside the door.

"I am not lying to you, Herr Schmidt," said a softer voice that was probably Dr. Erskine. "The serum is not ready. It would be violation of my oath as a physician to allow you to use it as it is now."

"Is that so?" Schmidt said. "How very...ethical of you." His voice became even more menacing. "But I know of several doctors who do not share your...scruples. Doctors like Arnim Zola. You remember him? You were colleagues, I am told."

Peggy heard the measured tread of Schmidt's boots, and imagined him circling Doctor Erskine like a tiger closing in on its prey.

"Like you, Doctor Zola is studying the limits of human potential...of human...endurance, shall we say. I'm sure he would enjoy getting reacquainted with you. Perhaps he could also meet your wife and daughters. Such exciting research Doctor Zola is doing."

"Please…" Doctor Erskine said, his voice thick with fear. "I swear to you, I am working as hard as I can, day and night. The serum will be ready soon. Please...don't harm my family."

"You have had many months to work, with the best equipment the Reich can supply," Schmidt continued. "Perhaps what you require is a deadline, yes? Some motivation? You have until this Friday. Then, I will test the serum, and if it is not what I require...you and Zola will have a little reunion."

The booted steps grew louder, and Peggy barely jerked back before the door opened and Schmidt himself appeared. He was a tall, lean man, with a high forehead, a face lined in a perpetual frown, and cold blue eyes. Those eyes found Peggy, and he moved like a striking serpent to grasp her around the wrist.

"Listening at keyholes, _fräulein_?" Schmidt asked, forcing her to walk backward until she bumped up against the table. "Hear anything of interest?" His grip on her wrist was painful. He did not look at her like an angry employer confronting a servant, but like someone considering a troublesome fly, wondering if it was worth the trouble and mess to crush it.

"I was bringing your supper, Herr Schmidt," she said. She didn't have to pretend to be afraid of him. There was something inhuman about the man. "I was about to knock, but it sounded like you were arguing."

Peggy played up her fear and allowed her hand to tremble. Schmidt wouldn't look at her too closely if she was just another terrified servant. "Please," she said, "you're hurting me."

Doctor Erskine had emerged from the inner room and strode quickly to stand next to them. "There is no need for this," he said softly. "You don't have to hurt her to make a point. Look how frightened she is."

Schmidt looked from Peggy to the Doctor and chuckled, a disturbing sound, devoid of mirth. "How gallant the doctor is," he said. "But I can be gallant as well. And I keep my word." He released Peggy and she collapsed against the table, using the motion to slip her note into Doctor Erskine's coat pocket.

"Get out, both of you."

Peggy stayed in character and did what Eva the maid would do. She turned and fled.

* * *

The intervening days passed in a blink and then it was Friday. Peggy was certain she hadn't slept more than few hours since Monday - whether the test went well or badly, this was the moment. Peggy had to get Doctor Erskine out of the castle today. All her supplies were ready - maps, electric torches, changes of clothes, food - she had even smuggled in a revolver - but she hadn't been able to communicate with Doctor Erskine at all. With the threat of Arnim Zola hanging over his head, he lived in the lab full-time. She only hoped he had read her message.

Johann Schmidt had spent the day closed up in his study - presumably poring over his old maps and strange books. Peggy had spent the day in a state of high alert and now she was practically vibrating. She found every excuse she could to hover outside the study, dusting already spotless knick knacks. When she came up with an arrangement of dried flowers for the decorative crystal vase - for the second time that day - she saw Gunter slouching outside the door. As always, he greeted her with a smile.

"Eva!" He said melodramatically. "Why are you bringing these dried flowers when you yourself are like the freshest blooming rose?"

"Gunter," Peggy said with mock surprise. "They let you in the house?"

"Klaus is ill," Gunter said - not sadly; there was no love lost between the two. "Food poisoning." He snickered. "He's been on the toilet all day."

"No!" said Peggy. She was not at all surprised, really, because she was the one who put him there - laxatives stolen from Ingrid's supply and snuck into his morning coffee. When the moment for her escape finally came, she would rather be up against smiling, smitten Gunter than the emotionless Klaus. And if Gunter was standing around outside the study…

_The doctor is in there with Schmidt,_ Peggy thought. It felt like an electric charge was running through her. After the months of infiltration and preparation, the time had come_._

"No, I am begging you!" Doctor Erskine's voice shouted from behind the door. "You must not! You do not know what it will do!"

Schmidt's voice replied, but through the thick door it was impossible to tell what he was saying. Gunter frowned and put his hand on the doorknob - he seemed to be debating whether to open the door and risk Schmidt's displeasure. Peggy glanced at the heavy crystal vase and wondered if this was the moment to take Gunter down. Her thoughts were interrupted by a bloodcurdling scream. It came from behind the study door, a cry of absolute agony. Peggy had heard that sound before - from the burn victims at the manor.

Gunter threw open the door. Doctor Erskine stood with his hands braced on the heavy table, staring in horror. Inside the study, Schmidt was in a leather armchair, one of his sleeves rolled up. He had injected himself with the serum. He convulsed and writhed, clenching and unclenching his fists, all the while screaming, howling as if he was being burned alive. His face looked strangely melted, and as Schmidt clawed at it, his skin peeled away like a tattered mask. Peggy could see something wet and red beneath. Gunter cursed loudly. Peggy grabbed Doctor Erskine by the arm and dragged him out the room, Gunter slamming the door behind them.

"What...the _hell_?" Gunter looked back at the door. The horrible screaming was still coming from behind it, on and on. "I….I have to do something….I have to call someone."

If he did, Peggy's opportunity would be lost. She had to act now.

"His face!" She screamed hysterically. "Did you see it? Horrible, so horrible!" She put her hands over her eyes and sobbed, shaking.

Gunter took her by the shoulders. "Eva, it's all right, we'll get someone…" Peggy stepped back and punched him right in the jaw, knocking him to the floor. As he tried to come back to his feet, she took the crystal vase with its dried flower arrangement and broke it over Gunter's head. Doctor Erskine gaped at her.

"Come on!" She said, taking his hand. "They'll be here any minute!" Someone, somewhere, would have heard Schmidt's screams, which were now accompanied by an enormous crashing sound - as if the bookshelves or even the massive table were being overturned.

Peggy pulled Erskine down the corridor, past the row of high windows and around the corner. There was a molding on the last window frame decorated with a carved grapevine, and when Peggy pressed one of the grapes, a panel swung open in the wall, revealing a dark passageway. She pushed Doctor Erskine into it and closed the panel behind them. Not a moment too soon - there was the sound of booted feet and shouting in the corridor outside. She and the doctor stood on a small landing of the servant's staircase she had found. Holding Doctor Erskine's hand in the dark, she led him down the stairs as swiftly and silently as she could, until they reached the bottom, where she had combined her supplies into two fat rucksacks. Peggy pulled her .38 out of one of the bags and gave the other to doctor Erskine, who was wide-eyed and gasping.

"Stay calm, doctor," she whispered, as soothingly as possible. "We're almost out. Do you have everything you need?" All he had were the clothes on his back and a leather bound notebook.

"This is everything," he said, clutching the notebook to his chest. "All my notes. My work."

Peggy nodded. "Good."

The last door of the secret stair opened into the mudroom directly off the servant's entrance; from there it was a quick walk across the gravel drive to the garage. Peggy hoped that Karl the chauffeur would be in the kitchen, drinking coffee and flirting with Ingrid, but as she crept into the garage she heard him humming to himself. He always hummed and sang when he polished the cars. Sometimes he talked to them, too, as if they were the horses the garage used to hold when it had been a stable. Peggy sighed and stepped forward. Karl looked up from where he was buffing a sky blue Alpha Romeo.

"Eva!" he said, smiling. "What brings you out…" and then he saw the gun in her hand.

"Sorry, Karl," Peggy said. "We're going to need the car."

* * *

They sped down the mountain road as quickly as Peggy could go without sending them over the edge. Karl's look of confusion and betrayal had pained her, but that was the nature of intelligence work, she supposed. You betrayed some to save others.

"So," Doctor Erskine said. "I take it your name isn't Eva?"

"Peggy Carter," she replied, dropping the German. "Strategic Scientific Reserve."

"British?" Doctor Erskine, asked. "I wouldn't have guessed. Your accent is flawless."

Gravel flew from the wheels of the Alpha Romeo as Peggy brought them around one of the road's sharp turns. Doctor Erskine held onto the dashboard, looking a little green.

"I know that we are fleeing for our lives," he said. "But could we perhaps go a little more carefully?"

"Don't worry, Doctor," Peggy said, bringing the car to a sudden stop. "We'll be going much more slowly now. Help me push."

Together, they shoved the Alpha Romeo over the edge of a steep embankment and watched it tumble down the slope into the river below. _Sorry, Karl_, Peggy thought again. It had been a beautiful automobile, and lovingly maintained - but leaving it on the road would draw too much attention, and give pursuers too much direction for their search. Peggy and the Doctor left the road and entered the forest, stopping to change clothes once the trees hid them from the street. Peggy traded her maid's uniform for a pair of trousers and a large wool coat, her brown braid tucked up under a cap. Doctor Erskine had changed into a similar ensemble. With some false moustaches, they would look like a father and son coming back from a hunt - at least, from a distance.

That night, they stayed in an abandoned shepherd's cottage. In the next few days they made their way into Switzerland hidden in a cargo train, then passed through occupied France, moving from one Resistance cell to another. Finally, they were taken to England in the hold of a smuggler's boat, where they were received by Colonel Phillips and inducted into the Strategic Scientific Reserve.

* * *

"Wow," said Stevie when Peggy's story was done. The car was a bubble of light floating on top of the black and gray landscape. "That is amazing. Really, really amazing."

"Thank you," said Peggy. Another car passed them, sending pools of light and shadow sliding over her face.

"After tomorrow…" Stevie started. "After...the procedure...do you think I could do that? Could I do work like you?"

"I don't see why not," said Peggy. "They'll probably want to run some tests, but after that they'll put you to work, I'm sure. You're clever and brave - you would be a great asset in the field."

"Brave?" Stevie laughed. "You snuck a man out of Germany under Hitler's nose!"

"You jumped on a grenade," Peggy countered.

"Anyone could have done that," Stevie muttered.

"But no one did, except you."

Stevie was grateful the car was dark because she was blushing to the roots of her hair.

"Well...I guess," said Stevie.

They drove in silence for a moment.

"I have a question about your story," said Stevie.

"What's that?"

"What happened to the doctor's family?"

"Ah," said Peggy, frowning. "That didn't end so happily."

* * *

From England to New York they all flew first-class on one of Howard Stark's transatlantic seaplanes. True to form, the millionaire-playboy-industrialist had stocked it with enough champagne for three times their number, but Doctor Erskine wasn't interested in celebrating. The entire journey he had been consumed with worry for his wife and daughters, certain that Johann Schmidt would have them killed in retaliation for his escape. He had told Peggy about them - his wife, Greta, had been one of his students when he taught biology at Frederick William University in Berlin. Her parents had not approved of their marriage because of his age - and because he was Jewish and she was not. His two daughters were ten and twelve years old.

After a week in New York, Peggy received a telegram from London - _the_ telegram, the one she had been dreading since she asked her network to search for Greta Erskine. Despite Colonel Phillips' offer to accompany her, she took it to the doctor's apartment in Queens and read it to him herself. Peggy's contact had found records of Greta and the girls in a camp called Dachau. In 1937, an outbreak of typhus had swept through the camp, killing hundreds of prisoners - among them, Greta and the girls. Doctor Erskine listened to her without expression, nodding as she spoke.

"Schmidt knew?" he asked. "For three years, he knew?"

"Yes," Peggy said. "He kept it from you so you would keep working for him. Without the threat to your family, he would have had no hold over you." She felt like she should say something comforting, but how can you comfort someone whose whole life had been ripped away in an afternoon?

"I never knew what Greta saw in me," Erskine said. "I was so much older than she was, so much less...glamorous. And I brought her so much trouble." He took off his glasses carefully and set them on the table. "And now, I never will know."

He put his head in his hands and sobbed. Peggy sat next to him with her hand on his shoulder and felt more helpless than she had in her entire life.

* * *

Stevie listened somberly. The war had barely touched her life, yet so many good people had been hurt by it already. How many more would have to pay the price before it was finally over?

Despite her nerves, and her serious train of thought, Stevie found herself nodding off. When she awoke, her glasses were digging into the side of her face, the sun was shining, and they were driving through Brooklyn, of all places.

"Hey," Stevie said, straightening her glasses. "I know this neighborhood." She pointed at an alley. "That's where I stopped Johnny Shotsman from chucking rocks at a stray cat. He threw me in...that dumpster. Right there."

Peggy chuckled. "I told you that you'd know where we were going."

She pulled up in front of a store with a sign that said "Antiques" in fading yellow. "Come on," she said. "We're here."

* * *

**Notes: Thanks for reading, everyone! I'm so happy that you enjoy this little story that I made. :-)**

**T****hanks are also due to my sister, PhD student in German history (who goes by Hey Gal on the Something Awful forums) for giving me the term ****_Saupreiẞ_****, and explaining how Bavarians hate non-Bavarians. And, yes, that is an Asgardian book in Schmidt's collection, like the one seen in ****_Thor: The Dark World_****, which also had moving illustrations.**


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7 - June 23, 1943

* * *

Stevie checked her reflection in the rearview mirror and tried to smooth her hair. She had a huge sleep crease running down one side of her face. She sighed. _I will go to meet my destiny looking like something the cat dragged in, _she thought. As for Peggy, after a quick touch up of her powder and lipstick, she looked as fresh as she had ten hours ago - her dark brown hair still somehow in perfect waves. _How does she do that?_ Stevie wondered as she stepped out of the car.

The store where they had stopped looked like any number of antique stores along this street - the windows full of old toys and dusty furniture - but inside there was a closet whose back panel opened into a long, white hallway. _Just like a spy novel, _Stevie thought. At the end of the corridor, a stone-face MP opened a set of double doors, and she and Peggy stepped through onto a catwalk overlooking a large, circular chamber - from spy fiction into science fiction.

The walls were lined with banks of blinking, beeping machines attended to by squad of men in white lab coats. In the center of the room, a large, open, metal pod stood on a raised platform, looking to Stevie like a very small spaceship. _Or a very fancy coffin_, she thought. She tried to swallow and found her mouth was suddenly dry. It was hard to believe this whole set-up was for her, that within minutes, she would be transformed. Or not. _Or dead_, whispered a traitorous little voice inside her.

Peggy and Stevie descended into a swirl of activity. Colonel Phillips was shaking hands with a smiling man in an expensive suit. Doctor Erskine was talking to a pair of nurses. The lab-coat men were reading dials and calling out numbers to a man whose sleek, black hair and pencil moustache made him look just like Howard Stark.

_Wait,_ Stevie thought. _That _is _Howard Stark. _Peggy _had_ told her he was working on the project, but it was still a bit surprising to see him here. In this environment - sleeves rolled up, frown of concentration creasing his forehead, surrounded by machines rather than chorus girls - Stevie could believe that he was a real inventor and not just some rich dilettante. She thought he looked better here in a knitted vest and shirtsleeves than he had looked strutting around on stage in that spiffy tuxedo.

Behind a white folding screen, Peggy helped Stevie exchange her Marinette uniform for some loose, pajama-like trousers and a white T-shirt. Stevie was glad Peggy was with her as she walked across the room to the pod - she felt small and exposed in the baggy pajamas, with all the scientists and men in suits watching her and muttering to each other. When she reached the pod, Stevie handed Peggy her glasses.

"Watch these for me, will you?" she said.

Peggy nodded, serious and silent. _Wow, even Peggy's nervous,_ Stevie thought. The thought was not reassuring.

A solemn Doctor Erskine helped Stevie step into the pod and lean back against the leather headrest. Three sets of pads were pulled into place around her - one set on her shoulders, one on her abdomen, and one on her thighs. She had a sudden memory of riding a roller coaster at Coney Island with Bucky - the padded bar descending over her chest. As she recalled, Bucky had enjoyed the experience much more than she had.

"Comfortable?" The doctor asked softly. Up close, he looked like he hadn't slept any more than Stevie had - his eyes were bloodshot behind his wire-rimmed spectacles, and his greying fringe of hair was even more disheveled than usual.

"It's a little big," Stevie said. Erskine smiled and took a stethoscope out of his coat pocket. "Hey," she continued, as he checked her pulse, her breathing. "How was the rest of that schnapps?"

"I had a little more than I should have," he said, ruefully. "We'll stick to coffee next time." He put his stethoscope away. "How are your levels, Mr. Stark?"

"Levels at one hundred percent," Stark replied, with a rakish grin. "We may dim half the lights in Brooklyn, but we are ready."

Erskine nodded. "Good." He turned to Peggy, who was still standing by the pod, holding Stevie's glasses. "Agent Carter, don't you think you'd be more comfortable in the booth?"

"Oh, yes," she said. "Sorry." She gave Stevie a quick, brittle smile and left to find a seat in the glassed-in booth that overlooked the lab. Stevie wished that she hadn't gone.

Someone handed Doctor Erskine a microphone. "Ladies and gentlemen," he said to the assembled crowd of officers, politicians and scientists. "Today we take not another step towards annihilation, but the first step towards the path to peace."

He pointed at a cart that one of the nurses had pushed up next to him, holding several large vials of blue liquid, as well as his brown, leather notebook. "We begin with a series of micro-injections into the subject's major muscles. The serum infusion will cause immediate cellular change. Then, to stimulate growth, the subject will be saturated with Vita Rays."

This was the most information Stevie had yet heard about the process, and it didn't sound too terrifying. Her heart hadn't gotten the message, though; it was galloping along in her chest like it was trying to escape. Doctor Erskine handed the microphone to an aide and the nurses slotted the vials into a part of the pod that Stevie couldn't see. The doctor began counting down.

"Serum infusion beginning in five, four, three, two...one."

Twelve large-bore needles punched into her at once, six on a side, in a line running from her thighs to her waist. Stevie hissed a breath in through her teeth.

"Now, Mr. Stark!" Erskine shouted.

The pod closed around Stevie, sealing her in like a sardine in a can. The noise of the lab cut off and the sound of her own rapid breathing filled the tiny chamber. She felt woozy and feverish, and the injection sites along her thighs were stinging and burning. The pads securing her began to buzz with energy.

"That's ten percent," Stark called from outside the pod.

"Twenty percent." The buzzing increased in pitch. Stevie's bones began to hum in resonance.

"Thirty." The hum was in her skull, in the roots of her teeth. The pod smelled like the air after an electrical storm - sharp and chemical.

"That's forty percent. All signs are normal." Light began to fill the pod, brighter and brighter, turning Stevie's vision red through her closed eyelids.

"That's fifty percent." She clenched her jaw and tasted metal. Her breath came in hitched gasps.

"Sixty." Stevie felt hot, hotter even than the time she had caught scarlet fever. Sweat was pouring off her, sticking her shirt to her back.

"Seventy." Stevie was burning up from the inside out. Her bones were red hot. Her blood was boiling. Her clenched jaw wrenched open in a scream.

"Stephanie!" Doctor Erskine was shouting. Someone was pounding on the outside of the pod. "Stephanie!"

"Shut it down!" That was Peggy. She sounded shrill and terrified. "Turn it off, Mr. Stark!"

_Not now. _Stevie thought, through the pain, tears streaming down her face. _Not after everything. _She gathered all her willpower to form the scream into words.

"Don't!" She cried, hoping they could hear her over the still-increasing noise of the machine. "I can do this! Let me do this!"

"Eighty...Ninety!" Stark's voice continued from outside the pod. Stevie didn't have breath to scream anymore. She was being unmade, dissolved by the light, the heat, the supersonic whine. From somewhere beyond pain, she heard Stark call out triumphantly.

"That's one hundred percent!"

The pod unsealed with a hiss, and Stevie became aware of herself again. The burning heat was fading into a body-wide tingling, like her arms and legs had all fallen asleep at the same time. The light was dimming; the whine quieting. Stevie was taking huge gulps of air - but her breath wasn't catching in her chest the way it always had before. She slowly opened her eyes - to see Doctor Erskine and Peggy staring at her with matching looks of awe. After a moment, she realized they were staring _up_ at her. Had the pod lifted her during the procedure? She tried to step down, only to find there was no down. Her bare feet were touching the floor, and she still towered a head above Peggy and the doctor. A quick bolt of vertigo twisted through her, as if she had missed the bottom step on a staircase.

"Son of a bitch," Colonel Phillips said from somewhere, and then the room was full of whoops and cheers as the watchers from the booth ran down the stairs to get a closer look.

"How do you feel?" Peggy asked.

Stevie blinked down at her and tried to adjust her glasses, except Peggy was still holding them.

"Taller," she said.

Stark was gaping at her with his mouth open. As she noticed him, he reached out and squeezed her bicep experimentally.

"Do you mind?" she asked.

He snatched his hand back. At least he had the decency to look embarrassed. Stevie realized she was a few inches taller even than he was, and nearly giggled. _Bucky is not going to believe this when he gets back!_

"We did it," she said to Doctor Erskine.

He nodded. His eyes were glittering with tears. "We did it."

Then the booth exploded.

* * *

Stevie ducked and threw her arms over her head as a red-orange fireball rained shards of glass on everyone in the room. The uniformed officers drew their sidearms immediately, looking around to try to find the source of the blast. But there was one man without a uniform who had drawn a pistol - a dark-haired man with a prominent nose, wearing a pale suit. He wasn't looking up at the booth like the rest; he was looking straight at Doctor Erskine, and, as Stevie watched uncomprehendingly, he shot the doctor twice in the chest.

More shots rang out, ricocheting off the staircase; a nurse screamed, Peggy shouted, and Stevie barely caught the doctor before he fell, a red stain blooming on his white coat.

_Stop the bleeding_, she thought, and pressed her hand against the wound. There was a horrible rasping gurgle as the doctor struggled to breathe. _There's so much blood_ _I can't stop it oh God I can't..._

Doctor Erskine was staring fixedly into Stevie's eyes. His lips were moving, and she leaned down to hear what he was saying.

"Remember…" a painful whisper. He clutched her hand with surprising strength. "Mercy...compassion." He was panting now, each breath shallower than the last.

"Don't try to talk," Stevie said. She was going to say - "It'll be alright," but before she could form the words, Doctor Erskine's eyes focused on something far away from her.

And he shuddered.

And he went horribly limp.

And he...he….

_This can't be happening,_ thought Stevie. _We did it. It's his greatest triumph. This can't be real._

Everyone else seemed to be moving slowly and silently, as if underwater, hands flapping and jaws moving without meaning. At once, Stevie realized three things, with perfect clarity:

Doctor Erskine was dead.

His notebook was missing from the steel cart where it had been a moment ago.

The man in the pale suit was gone, and Peggy had gone after him alone.

Stevie sprang up the stairs three at a time on her new, long legs. She burst through the secret door and out of the antique shop just in time to see Peggy standing in the middle of the street, firing her service revolver at a taxi that was heading straight for her - a taxi driven by the man in the pale suit, the man who had shot Doctor Erskine. What happened after that, Stevie would always remember as a series of snapshots, disconnected moments in time: The wind of the car's wake on her back as she tackled Peggy out of the way. Her legs pumping like tireless pistons as she chased down the speeding taxi and leapt onto its roof. The red smear of Doctor Erskine's blood that she left on the taxi's yellow body as she clung to it with all her new-made strength, the driver veering from side to side in an attempt to shake her off. Throwing herself free when the car hit the curb and flipped over.

Bullets sparking off the road as the man shot at her and she dove behind a parked car for cover.

Her heart lurching when she saw him holding a young girl at gunpoint.

The girl couldn't have been older than nine, her blond pigtails shaking as she sobbed. The man in the pale suit forced her to walk around a corner away from Stevie - towards the riverfront. _If I call his attention,_ Stevie thought. _He'll probably shoot at me instead of the girl. I'm the greater threat._ She wasn't sure how her new body would handle being shot, but she could probably take one bullet at least and still stop him - if he got the notebook to the Nazis it would be a disaster. She padded along the wall silently on bare feet, took a deep breath and stepped around the corner.

"Hey!" Stevie shouted, "Let her go!"

The man in the pale suit turned to face Stevie; his eyes as cold and gray as winter clouds. There was a moment when he wavered, a moment of indecision about whether to turn the gun on Stevie or shoot his hostage. In that moment the girl stopped crying and bit his hand as hard as she could. The man yelled in pain and dropped his gun, shaking the girl off and giving her a vicious backhanded slap before fleeing toward the dock. Stevie ran to help her, but the girl scrambled to her feet, shouting that she was alright, "So get him!"

Stevie sprinted down the dock, arriving just in time to see the man sink into the water at the controls of a sleek black submersible the size of a car. A dive and a few quick strokes were enough to catch the accelerating submarine, and Stevie was rewarded with the look of shock on the man's face before she punched through the glass of the cockpit and hauled him out by his necktie, tossing him onto the dock ahead of her like a landed fish.

"Who the hell are you?" She shouted, taking the man by the lapels of his ruined suit and shaking him. A cut on his forehead was bleeding profusely down the side of his face, and for a second he looked dazed. Then, his aquiline features hardened into an arrogant smirk.

"The first of many," he said, and Stevie wondered if she imagined a slight tremor in his voice, belying his tough expression.

"Cut off one head," he said, a Teutonic accent growing more pronounced as he spoke, "two more shall take its place." He clenched his jaw sharply and Stevie heard something crack. "Hail Hydra," he gasped.

White foam came from the man's mouth as his pale eyes rolled back into his head. He twitched and jerked, and then, for the second time that day, Stevie saw a man die in front of her.

* * *

Stevie sat, wrapped in a blanket, on an uncomfortable metal chair, in yet another room of the secret lab - this one some kind of hanger or garage with an oil-stained concrete floor. Hours had passed since Doctor Erskine's assassination - how many, she wasn't sure. Enough time for her clothes and hair to dry; and enough time for Howard Stark to have the black submarine dragged back to the lab, where he and a small squad of mechanics were single-mindedly dismantling it. Stevie watched him enviously. He was doing something useful, and she, after the nurses drew what looked like enough blood to fill a soup tureen, had been left with a blanket to cover herself - and nothing to do. The blood was necessary, Peggy had explained, because Doctor Erskine's notebook - the only record of his work - was turning to pulp at the bottom of the East River.

"Any hope of reproducing the program is locked in your genetic code." Peggy had said, her melodious voice low and sad. "But without Doctor Erskine, it could take years."

"He deserved more than this," Stevie had answered - it was a ludicrous understatement, but it was all she could think to say.

"If it had to work only once," Peggy had said, taking Stevie's shoulder reassuringly, "he'd be proud it was you."

Peggy may have believed that, but Stevie wasn't so sure.

Since then, Peggy and Colonel Phillips had been closeted away with various bigwigs, discussing how to salvage this awful situation. _Discussing what to do with me,_ Stevie thought. It was cruelly ironic - she could outrun a car and outswim a submarine, and yet, she was still just as useless as she had been yesterday.

A door slammed and Stevie heard an argument coming down the hall, or more accurately, Colonel Phillips' strident, Texan voice, which was an argument all by itself. The Colonel burst into the lab, followed by Agent Carter and the silver-haired man in the expensive suit Stevie had seen the Colonel shaking hands with that morning - a lifetime ago. He wasn't smiling now, as he had been then - he was glaring at the Colonel, who was in the middle of a cutting remark.

"...Answers?" Colonel Phillips said. "Let's start with how a German spy got a ride to _my_ secret installation in _your_ car, Senator." In his mouth, the word "Senator" became an insult. The Colonel turned to Stark. "What do we got here?"

Stark pulled himself from the innards of the submarine and wiped his face with the back of one hand, leaving a streak of oil on his forehead that he didn't seem to notice.

"Speaking modestly, I'm the best mechanical engineer in the country," he said, as matter-of-factly as if he had said what color tie he was wearing. "But I don't know what's inside this thing, or how it works. We're not even close to this technology."

"Then who is?" That was the Senator.

"Hydra." The Colonel bit off the word like it hurt his mouth.

"Hydra?" The Senator asked.

"Hydra is the Nazi deep-science division," Peggy jumped in before the Colonel could speak, probably sensing he'd say something insulting. "It's led by a man named Johann Schmidt, but he has much bigger ambitions."

"Hydra's practically a cult; they worship Schmidt," Colonel Phillips said. "They think he's invincible."

"So what are you going to do about it?" the Senator asked.

Colonel Phillips answered without looking at him. "As of today, the Strategic Scientific Reserve is being re-tasked," he said. "We are taking the fight to Hydra."

Peggy looked surprised. "Colonel?"

"Pack your bags, Agent Carter," he answered. "You too, Stark. We're flying to London tonight."

Stevie stood up and dropped the blanket. This was her chance, maybe her only chance. She had to make the Colonel see how helpful she could be, how much she could do for him, for the war.

"Sir," she said, ducking around the nose of the black submarine to reach the group. "If you're going after Hydra, after Schmidt, I can help you." The dream she had briefly glimpsed on the drive from Camp Lejeune bloomed in her mind. She could be a field agent, like Peggy Carter - collect intel and rescue assets behind enemy lines. Surely he would agree to that?

Colonel Phillips turned to Stevie with a look of contempt so withering it felt like he had punched her in the gut.

"You're an experiment," he rasped. "You're going to Alamogordo."

"But," Stevie stammered, shocked by the vitriol of his rejection. "It worked. The serum worked." She hated how small her voice was.

"I asked for an army," said the Colonel. "And all I got was you. You." He looked her up and down - and dismissed her. "You're not enough."

The Colonel turned and strode away. Stark left with him, casting a lingering look back at the submarine. Peggy stopped and gave Stevie's hand a squeeze. "Don't give up," she whispered, before striding briskly off after the Colonel, heels clicking on the concrete.

Stevie was looking after them, eyes stinging, blinking rapidly and clenching her fists to keep from crying in front of the mechanics, when the Senator cleared his throat. She had almost forgotten he was there.

"With all due respect to the Colonel," he said smoothly. "I think we may be missing the point." He was handsomely middle-aged, his face weathered by time, but still smooth and youthful under his silver hair. Stevie sniffled a little, and wondered what on earth he could mean.

"I've seen you in action, Miss Rogers," the Senator continued. "More importantly, the country's seen it." He pulled a paper out of his jacket - absurdly, her picture was on the front page, under a headline proclaiming MYSTERY WOMAN CAPTURES GUNMAN, SAVES CHILD. Stevie almost didn't recognize herself - barefoot, hair blown back from her face, crouched athletically, one hand outstretched toward the man in the pale suit as he held the blonde girl at gunpoint. _There was a photographer there? _Stevie thought. In the picture, it was clear that she wasn't wearing any..."foundation garments" - as her homeroom teacher called them - under her newly tight T-shirt. Stevie blushed - she still wasn't wearing any; the nurses hadn't found a brassiere that fit her. She folded her arms across her chest and wished she hadn't dropped her blanket across the room.

The Senator was still talking, pointing at the picture. "You don't take a woman like that - a _symbol_ like that - and hide her in a lab." In a credit to his professionalism, the Senator kept his eyes - blue, sincere and imploring as only a politician's eyes could be - firmly on Stevie's face. "Miss Rogers, do you want to serve your country on the most important battlefield of the war?"

"Sir," she said, feeling a lump of emotion in her throat. "That's all I want."

"Then congratulations," the Senator smiled. His teeth were square, white and even as a line of Chiclets. "You just got promoted."

* * *

**Notes: Thank you all for reading! At last, we get to the transformation! I thought it made more sense for Erskine to have a notebook than to have one random vial of the serum left lying around. **


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8 - June through August, 1943

***Thanks for reading, everyone! Thanks are also due to PageLady for the lyrics to the Star Spangled Man with the Plan (altered for Stevie of course). The lyrics are available at PageLady's Wordpress blog.**

* * *

_*Who's strong and brave, here to save the American Way?*_

_Dear Bucky,_

_The Marinettes have given me a placement at last - with the USO! Now, don't look so shocked - I'm not a chorus girl. I mean, can you imagine? I'm just helping backstage with costumes and things. We're setting off on tour, so I'll be sure to send you some postcards._

_Eventually we should go overseas to perform for the troops - who knows? We might even run into you! _

Stevie closed with a sketch of a chorus line of beautiful women in star-spangled costumes, herself at the end - her old self; short, skinny and bespectacled - holding an American flag in each hand.

_P.S. - You'd like it here. The skirts are very short._

_Stevie_

Stevie sealed the letter and dropped it into the mailbox with a sigh. If Project Rebirth weren't still classified, her letters would have been very different. She had actually written them on pages in her sketchbook - secret letters she could never send:

_Dear Bucky,_

_I still have dreams about Doctor Erskine being shot. It all happens the way it did before - I watch him die and can't do anything. Sometimes in my dreams, you're there, and the spy shoots you, too. I hope you're safe. I worry about you so much._

_Dear Bucky, _

_Sometimes I don't recognize myself in mirrors. When you get home, will you recognize me? I spent five minutes this morning hunting around for my spectacles, before I remembered I don't need them anymore._

_Dear Bucky,_

_I miss you._

* * *

_*Who's here to fight, give her all for what's right, night and day?*_

The Senator - Senator Brandt, his name was - had made Stevie the star attraction in a travelling patriotic stage production. It was not a natural fit by any means: despite vastly increased lung capacity, Stevie's singing voice remained breathy and slightly off-key; and the first time she had tried to dance, she kicked a shoe into the mezzanine. There were no costumes for women in her size, so they had to alter a man's costume to fit her - bright blue tights and jacket, with a band of vertical red and white stripes running around her waist and a white star on her chest, finished off with red leather boots and gloves. It wasn't a short skirt and fishnets, but it was, by far, the most ostentatious piece of clothing Stevie had ever worn. The costumer had also presented her with a blue helmet that had little wings on the sides, but Sal - who was her manager, Stevie guessed - had nixed that.

"You got a face like that, you don't cover it up," he had said, making her blush.

Sal - whose snub nose and round, childlike features belied his keen instinct for show business - came to the rescue again with the suggestion that, rather than sing and dance, she just swagger out, deliver a rousing speech, and perform some heroic-looking feats as the chorus girls strutted, kicked and sang a ridiculous tune about her that began "_Who's strong and brave, here to save the American Way?_" and ended by calling her "_The Girl with the Star-Spangled Heart_."

Despite all Sal's efforts, Stevie's first performance was almost a disaster. Stevie had never put on her own makeup, and it had to be fixed at the last minute by a sympathetic chorus girl named Doris. With five minutes to call, all the other performers gathered in the wings, she was still in the dressing room, hyperventilating.

"Whoa, whoa, are you okay?" Sal asked, when he found her. "You look a little green around the gills."

"I don't think I can do this," Stevie said. At that moment, she would almost rather be shot at again than go on stage. "I've forgotten everything I was supposed to say."

"Gimme a minute," Sal left and returned moments later hefting a kite-shaped prop shield decorated with the stars and stripes, a common motif for the performance.

"Your speech is taped to the back," he said. "Oldest trick in the book. But look out, it's made of solid oak and it's a little..." he trailed off. When the stagehands had to hang the shield on set, they always complained about how heavy it was; Stevie had lifted it in one hand as though it were made of cardboard.

* * *

_*Who will campaign door to door for America? Carry the flag shore to shore for America?*_

If Stevie hadn't been - enhanced - as she was, she would have found the routine incredibly grueling: four shows a day almost every day, sleeping on trains more often than in real beds. They crossed and recrossed the country, performing in all the places Stevie had heard of but never seen - Detroit, Chicago, St. Louis, Albuquerque - until Stevie could swagger and smile and say "bullet in the barrel of your best boy's gun" without even consulting the notes still taped to the back of her shield.

For Stevie, the journey was not measured in miles or days, but in the letters, postcards and random sketches she sent Bucky along the way - pictures of her fellow performers, of the Chicago skyline, of the mountain lions and bears she had seen from the train on her way west. The company had been touring for over a month and a half by the time Stevie finally received a letter back.

_Dear Stevie,_ it said, in chicken-scratch handwriting that years of education had been unable to improve.

_I really like getting your letters, please keep sending them even though I can't write back a lot. The guys over here think your pictures are great, especially the ones of chorus girls, ha ha. You'd like it here in _[CENSORED] _\- it's full of all that historical stuff you used to read about all the time. Monuments and ruins all over the place. If you were here, you could tell me all about 'em._

_But I'm glad you're not here. War isn't like I thought it would be. Sometimes I feel..._ The next few words were crossed out violently, and Stevie couldn't read them no matter how closely she looked.

_Don't get into trouble while I'm gone. _

_Bucky_

Stevie kept the letter tucked into her sketchbook, pulling it out to read over and over, until she was afraid it would fall apart.

"Is that from your beau?" Doris asked her one day as they were getting ready for yet another show.

Stevie had no idea how Doris had seen her reading the letter, hidden behind her sketchbook, when she herself was putting on eyeliner. Doris was a pretty blonde from the Bronx with a button nose, a mischievous grin and a keen ear for gossip.

"Bucky's not my 'beau'," Stevie said. "We grew up together; he's all the family I've got." She folded the letter carefully and put it back. "He's a sergeant in the 107th."

Doris nodded. "I have three brothers," she said, smiling a little sadly. "A matched set - Army, Navy and Marines."

The other girls chimed in; most of them had someone overseas - a brother, a cousin, a fiance. They saw what they were doing as a way to help the people they loved. A way to keep them safe. Stevie knew that this work was important; she would never tell these women otherwise; but she couldn't help feeling that she was meant for something else.

"Alright, get over here," Doris said, interrupting Stevie's ruminations. "It's time to fix you up. You know," she continued, outlining Stevie's eyes in black pencil, "you should really learn to do this yourself. It isn't hard."

"It isn't hard for _you_," Stevie said. "I follow your instructions to the letter and I still look like a demented clown. And I can't get that darned pencil near my eye without twitching and ruining everything."

Doris chuckled, "Practice makes perfect. Now hush; I'm going to do your lips." She used a little brush to color Stevie's mouth a crisp red. "I should give you homework," she put on a dry, nasal, teacher-y voice. "Lesson one, lipstick. Lesson two, nylons."

The other girls jumped in. They all found Stevie's lack of charm endearingly hilarious.

"Lesson three - walking in high heels!"

"Lesson four - flirting!"

"Why flirt," said Stevie, as Doris pinned her hair back, "When I can just carry a man off under each arm?"

And that, of course, was when the stagehand came to tell them it was five minutes to call.

* * *

_*She's giving us a head start - The Girl with the Star-Spangled Heart!*_

Stevie was surprised the first time she saw herself on a recruiting poster, mounted next to a recruiting station in Duluth. Her doppelganger gazed out at passers-by with an enigmatic half-smile; behind her a billowing American flag, and over her head the question "Are YOU a girl with a Star-Spangled Heart?".

"Oh my God, it's you!" Doris shrieked. "What a gas!" She looked from Stevie to the poster a few times, and giggled. "You should take it, just for kicks. Send it to that boyfriend of yours."

"It's military property, I can't just take it," Stevie countered. "And, for the last time, Bucky's not my boyfriend."

"Killjoy," Doris muttered.

After that, Stevie became accustomed to seeing her own face smiling out at her from the strangest places - comic books, trading cards, advertisements. Apparently Senator Brandt had been wheeling and dealing while Stevie was out touring, and had made her into the face of the American war effort without her knowledge. He even got her into film strips and shorts to show before movies - she strode at the head of columns of men, carried soldiers bedecked with ketchup bloodstains, and knocked out German generals with a telegraphed punch to the jaw. It took her ages to remember not to look at the camera while they were filming.

"It ruins the illusion," the director said patiently.

"Sorry," Stevie muttered, and took her mark for what felt like the fiftieth time. At least on stage she only had to do everything once. Well, once per show.

* * *

*_Who waked the giant that napped in America? We know it's no one but Captain America!*_

One day, Sal hauled Stevie down to his office during a break between shows. Sal's New York office was a repurposed broom closet, but it beat working out of train cars and hotel rooms.

With all the exposure she was getting, Sal said, he had realized she had to have a name.

"I have a name," Stevie told him. "Stephanie Grace Rodgers. Can I go now?" Stevie was standing in the doorway because they wouldn't both fit in the room at the same time.

"Har har," Sal replied. "You're a hero now - you think Wonder Woman would introduce herself as," Here he put on a ridiculous falsetto and batted his eyes, "Stephanie Grace Rodgers?"

"No," Stevie said. "Because her name is Diana Prince. And my voice is not that high!"

"Quiet, I'm thinking." Sal paced as well as he could in the tiny room, basically turning around in place. "Lady Liberty is taken. And you'd have to wear a bedsheet. Liberty Belle?" Stevie groaned. "You're right, no puns...hey, you're a lady reservist right? You have an actual rank?"

"Senator Brandt made me an honorary Captain."

Sal snapped his fingers. "That's it! Captain America! What do you think?"

Stevie shrugged. "Sounds great. Can I go now? Call is in a half hour and I haven't had lunch."

* * *

*_She'll tear the Nazis apart! Their evil plans she will thwart! The Girl with the Star-Spangled Heart!*_

Stevie started to be recognized. People she didn't know would stop her on the street for autographs. After shows, they wanted to shake her hand. She knew she should feel proud, satisfied, but all she felt was frustration buzzing in her chest like a wasps' nest.

_Dr. Erskine didn't die to make me a glorified chorus girl, _she thought as she lay in another narrow hotel bed, unsleeping. _Any actor could do what I'm doing, probably better than me, too. I should be saving lives, not selling war bonds._

But there was nothing she could do, not yet.

So Stevie kept smiling at Senator Brandt, smiling at the audience, at the photographers, smiling, smiling, smiling until she thought her cheeks would crack. And she remembered what Peggy had said to her before she left.

_Don't give up_.

* * *

**Thanks everyone! In Chapter 9, Stevie will be in Italy!**

**Historical and Plot Notes: **

Stevie's shield isn't made of steel, because it's ridiculous to waste metal on a stage prop when people are collecting whatever scraps they can scrounge up from junkyards for the war effort. Oak is heavy, solid and can still be used to brain people.

Bucky is writing to Stevie from Sicily. The Allies landed there in July 1943. They didn't make it to mainland Italy until September.

The "Girl With the Star-Spangled Heart" is a real WW2 propaganda poster and can be viewed at the Library of Congress website. The model on the real version looks nothing like Stevie.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9 - November 2, 1943 - Italy

* * *

The sky over the camp was a steely gray, low clouds brooding over the makeshift stage. Since Stevie had come to Italy it had rained almost every day, and she had gotten used to sleeping on cots, travelling in jeeps, and always being slightly damp. Stevie looked out at the sea of soldiers' faces that was her audience, searching, as always, for Bucky. He wasn't here either.

"Alright," she said brightly into the round, silver microphone. "How many of you are ready to help me sock ol' Adolf on the jaw?"

It wasn't that Stevie had never had a bad show - especially at the beginning, when she was about as dynamic as a block of wood - but this crowd was beyond apathetic. The soldiers watched her with a silence that was downright hostile.

"Okay," Stevie bolstered her faltering smile. "I need a volunteer."

"We already volunteered," someone called from the back of the crowd. "How do you think we got here?"

Sarcastic laughter rumbled through the crowd like distant thunder. Behind her smile, Stevie felt a tingle of panic.

"Hey," another voice called. "Why don't you do a little dance for us, like the other girls?"

"I don't really…" she began nervously.

"Yeah, sweetheart - show us your stuff!"

"Dance!" Someone shouted, and then the men started chanting. "Dance! Dance! Dance! Dance!"

"Fellas…" she stammered. How had she lost control of the situation so quickly? She cast around for some way to make a graceful exit. Bring in the other girls? Did they know any routines other than the "Girl with the Star-Spangled Heart"?

Suddenly, a voice called out stridently over the chanting.

"Show us your tits!"

The men roared. Stevie felt her face redden with embarrassment and anger.

"That is uncalled for…" she began, but Sal stepped between her and the microphone.

"Let's hear it for Captain America!" he said, clapping all by himself. "And now, the Liberty Belles have a special encore, just for you!" He gestured frantically at the wings and the girls ran out to cheers and whistles. Sal put one hand firmly on Stevie's shoulder and steered her offstage.

"Don't worry," he murmured, patting her on the back. "Next time will be better, you'll see. It's just these yahoos."

Stevie sat out the rest of the performance under the backstage tent that protected all their costumes and props, and stayed there in a fine funk while the girls fluttered off and the stagehands got everything ready for the next show. The rain that had been threatening all day finally arrived, and pattered down onto the canvas above Stevie as she sketched, drawing herself over and over - as a chorus girl in a short skirt, as a clown with a painted face, as a trained monkey riding a unicycle.

She had been so excited to travel overseas and help the troops - see them face to face and let them know that what they were doing meant something. She had even entertained the crazy hope that she, like Peggy, would get that one-in-a-million chance and be discovered by some general, chosen for a special secret mission. How absurd it all seemed now - she was more useless than ever. The men held her in contempt.

A familiar, soft, British voice interrupted her moping. "Hello, Stevie."

"Hi, Peggy," Stevie said automatically, and then jerked her head up. "Peggy! Hi!" As if thinking about her had conjured her up, there was Peggy Carter, looking just as polished as she had in New York all those months ago, even if she was slightly dampened. Stevie jumped to her feet and hugged the smaller woman, sketchbook still in one hand.

"What are you doing here?" Stevie asked, releasing Peggy and holding her at arm's length. _And how do you get lipstick and bobby pins in a war zone?_

"Officially, I'm not here at all," Peggy replied enigmatically, taking a seat on a crate of prop missiles. "That was quite a performance."

"Yeah," Stevie said, her brief joy evaporating. She sat down heavily next to Peggy and opened up her sketchbook again. "They really loved me; I could tell."

"I heard you were America's new hope." Peggy said. "How's that going?"

"Bond sales take a ten percent bump in every state I visit," Stevie said, scratching away at the her-as-dancing-monkey picture, trying to keep all the bitterness and envy she felt out of her voice. "And women's recruitment is up five percent nationwide."

"So that was Senator Brandt's idea."

"At least he let me do something," Stevie snapped, glaring at Peggy. "Colonel Phillips would have stuck me in a lab!"

Peggy didn't return Stevie's anger. Instead, she looked sad. "Are those your only options? Lab rat or," she gestured at Stevie's sketchbook, "Dancing monkey?"

Stevie looked away again, chewing on the inside of her lip to keep from retorting. _I'm sorry I couldn't get anything better than a circus act. I'm not smart enough. I'm not you._

Peggy put a hand on her shoulder. "You were meant for more than this," she said softly.

Stevie kept staring out into the rain. A handful of soldiers were walking across the camp, on their way to or from some inscrutable, military task. With her new, improved eyes, she could see their faces clearly, even at this distance. They looked tired, empty, beaten down - as if the rain were dissolving them back into the earth. Her heart ached for them - ached to be able to do something for them.

"They look like they've been through hell," she murmured.

"These men more than most," Peggy replied. "They met Schmidt's forces at Azzano. Of their entire company, two hundred men, only fifty returned. The rest were killed or captured. Your audience contained what remains of the 107th."

Stevie felt like someone had opened up her chest and poured ice water into it.

"The 107th?" she said, her voice a weak puff of air.

"What is it?" Peggy asked. "You look like someone walked over your grave."

"That's my friend...Bucky...that's his unit."

* * *

Peggy had to run to keep up with Stevie as she strode to the command tent. She told Stevie all the information she knew on the way - the men who hadn't been killed in the battle had been taken to Austria. Allied agents had tracked them to a facility near Kreischberg - some kind of factory was their best guess. Prisoners were trucked in; tanks came out. Survivors of the battle reported Hydra using weapons of terrible power - rifles and tanks that fired blue bolts of energy, vaporizing anyone in their path.

Stevie's mind chattered to itself all the way across the camp, a litany of worst-case scenarios. _Bucky's dead. He's been captured. He's wounded horribly, lying in a ditch somewhere, bleeding into the mud. _She shook her head as if trying to shake her thoughts loose. Surely this was all a big mistake, and Bucky would walk up any minute, laughing at her for being so worried.

But he didn't.

In the command tent stood none other than Colonel Phillips, the last person Stevie wanted to see when she was soaking wet and dressed in star-spangled tights. He consulted a piece of paper in his hand through a pair of half-moon spectacles.

"Mrs. Williams," the Colonel dictated to a young aide at a nearby typewriter. "We regret to inform you that your son," He glanced at the paper. "Louis...was killed in action on the twentieth of October...Oh, just continue with the usual."

Colonel Phillips took off his glasses briefly and pinched the bridge of his nose. His hair was grayer than the last time Stevie had seen him, his face more lined. He looked very old, and very tired, and for a moment, Stevie felt a stab of sympathy for him. Then, he saw her, and his face hardened.

"Well," he said. "If it isn't the Girl with the Star-Spangled Heart."

The intervening months had not improved his opinion of her, apparently. _Say whatever you want_, Stevie thought. _Insult me, berate me, I don't care anymore. _There was only one thing she cared about.

"Colonel Phillips," she said. "I need to see the casualty list from Azzano."

"You may be a celebrity, Miss Rodgers, but you don't give me orders." He beckoned, and a nearby MP took Stevie's arm to escort her away. She shook off his hand.

"I just need one name. Sergeant James Barnes of the 107th. Please, sir…" Her voice broke. The MP moved in again, but Colonel Phillips held up his hand to stop him.

"Please tell me if he's alive." Stevie continued. "It's Barnes, B-A-R-"

"I can spell," the Colonel interrupted sharply, but he looked back at her with something approaching compassion.

"I've signed more of these condolence letters today than I care to count," he said, sounding bone-weary. "But the name does sound familiar. I'm sorry."

Stevie nodded. Peggy was patting her back, saying something she didn't hear. _I was so close_, she thought. _A week - two weeks maybe. I would have been able to stop it. I would have been able to stop him from..._she shied away from the thought.

"What about the others?" Stevie asked. "Are you planning a rescue mission?"

"Yeah," The Colonel snapped, sympathy gone from his voice. "It's called winning the war."

"But if you know where they are, why not…" _Why not send someone. Why not send me?_

"They're thirty miles behind the lines, through some of the most heavily fortified territory in Europe. We'd lose more men than we'd save." The Colonel's voice was thick with anger and despair. "I don't expect you to understand that, because you're a chorus girl."

The Colonel's contempt would have stung her five months ago, but now Stevie was quietly furious. He wasn't willing to listen to her, wasn't willing to consider her. Well, that was just dandy. She'd rescue the soldiers herself.

"I understand fine," she said.

"Well than understand it somewhere else," he said, turning back to his list of the dead - and his aide at the typewriter, who had watched the entire exchange while looking increasingly uncomfortable. "If I read the posters correctly, you have somewhere to be in thirty minutes."

"Yes sir," she ground out through her teeth, and strode out into the rain again.

* * *

"Stevie," a voice came from behind her. "Stevie!" Peggy had followed her from the command tent, and was trotting briskly to catch up with her. "You're planning something aren't you?"

"Yes," Stevie replied briefly, not slowing down.

"You're planning to break them out."

"Yes."

"What are you going to do," Peggy sounded frustrated, "Walk to Austria?"

"If that's what it takes."

"And what if the Colonel is right, and your friend is dead?"

Stevie stopped and turned to face the other woman.

"You don't know that," Stevie said quietly. "And besides, it wouldn't matter."

The rain fell between them. Peggy's hair was plastered to her face, and she was breathing hard from trying to keep up with Stevie.

"What you said to me earlier," Stevie said. "That I shouldn't give up, that I was meant for more than this. Did you believe it?"

Peggy nodded. "Every word."

"Then don't try to stop me." Stevie turned to enter the backstage tent. There were things she needed - she couldn't raid a prison in her costume, that was for sure.

"I can do more than that," Peggy said, a steely note in her voice. "Meet me at the airfield in five minutes."

* * *

"More" turned out to be an airplane and Howard Stark. Stevie found herself unsurprised to see him here - after all, the last time she had seen Peggy and the Colonel, Stark had been there. It was a natural continuation of their last meeting - broken by a hiatus of five months. Stark's plane was sleek, silver and sporty - very much like Stark himself, who was also sleek and sporty in a brown bomber jacket and white knit turtleneck, still pristine even in all this mud. Peggy had exchanged her skirt and heels for trousers and boots, with a pistol on her belt.

"I hope you're not planning to tell me some nonsense about staying behind," she said as she and Stevie boarded.

"Wouldn't dream of it," Stevie lied.

"Because I am an expert in infiltration and extraction," Peggy continued, handing Stevie a pistol of her own, that she buckled onto her thigh.

"I know that, and believe me I'm glad to have your help" Stevie said. "But won't you be in a lot of...trouble? With Colonel Phillips?"

Peggy snorted. "I'm already in trouble by this point. 'Might as well be hanged for a ewe as a lamb,' as my father used to say. Besides," her face turned serious. "I'm sick of sending men off to die while I stay behind. I don't know how the Colonel stands it."

The sun was sinking as they flew north, glinting off the little rivers and snow-capped peaks below, burnishing the bottoms of the clouds pink and gold. The trio in the plane sat in silence, Stark flying and the women thinking.

* * *

_After Peggy had run off, Stevie had gone into the backstage tent and thrown a set of men's khaki fatigues on over her costume. She kept the red leather boots, because she doubted her canvas sneakers would be of much use in an Austrian forest. She had unpinned her hair and was braiding it sloppily when Doris burst in._

"_God, I need a smoke," she said, hunting through her things, then, seeing Stevie, she frowned. "What are you doing? We're on in ten minutes, and you've ruined your hair!"_

"_Doris," Stevie had said, finding it unexpectedly hard to speak. "I won't be in the next show." _

_Maybe not any more shows, if she were court-martialed_.

"_There's...something I have to do." _

_Doris had looked at Stevie for a long moment, taking in her change of clothes, deducing what that meant. Doris had always been a sharp one. _

"_You're going to try to play the hero, aren't you?" she said. "You big dummy." _

_Stevie nodded sheepishly. "Tell Sal I'm sorry to leave him in the lurch like this," she said._

_Doris quickly rummaged in a pile of costumery and emerged with the helmet that she wore in one of the numbers - military surplus, painted blue with a white "A" on the front. She reached up to put it on Stevie's head and buckle it under her chin. _

"_Here," she said. "If you're doing what I think you're doing, people might try to shoot you." She gave Stevie a quick hug, her head barely coming to the taller woman's chin. _

"_Be careful, for Christ's sake" she said, then ducked away, dabbing her eyes carefully so as not to smudge her mascara. "I never saw you, ok?" _

_On her way out of the tent, Stevie had seen her shield leaning up against a dressing table, and on a whim, she took it with her. Holding made her feel safer, stronger - it made her feel like Captain America._

* * *

The sun had gone down while Stevie had been thinking. Now they flew in the dark. They were getting close. _My first time on a plane, _Stevie thought. _And soon I'll be jumping out of it._

"What's the plan?" She asked Stark, speaking loudly to be heard over the roar of the engines. "Where will you be dropping us off?"

"You see those two mountain ranges?" he said, pointing off into the darkness, where the mountains were black shadows against the night sky. "The facility is between them. Gentleman that I am, I'll take you girls right to the doorstep."

Stark reached into a pack on the copilot's seat, producing a palm-sized metal box with an antenna and a button on one end.

"This is your transponder," he said, holding it out to Stevie. "Push the button when you're ready - it'll lead me right to you."

Stevie's hand brushed Stark's as she took the box. As well-manicured as he was, his hand was rough - nicked and callused from all the work he did. He looked into Stevie's eyes and gave her a slow grin, all white teeth and dimples.

"And then," he said a bit more softly, "We can stop over at Lucerne for a quick fondue."

Stevie flushed. Fondue? Was that some kind of…? Was he propositioning her? Right here? In a plane? In front of Peggy?

"Mr. Stark," she said with careful dignity. "I'm not that kind of girl."

Stark looked confused for a second, then chuckled. "No, no, 'fondue' is…"

At that moment, there was a bone-shaking boom and a red-orange flash - anti-aircraft fire.

"We've been spotted!" Peggy yelled, buckling on her parachute.

"Looks like we'll be getting off here" Stevie told Stark as she tucked the transponder in her shirt pocket and pulled her own parachute on. "As soon as we jump, turn this thing around."

He protested, but the next explosion put a neat line of flak punctures through the plane's sleek hull, with a noise like hail rattling off a roof. He changed his mind after that. Peggy pulled the door open and the wind hit Stevie like a slap in the face.

"Ready?" Peggy yelled.

"Am I ever!" Stevie replied - and the two women, one after the other, leapt into the darkness.

* * *

**Thanks for reading, everyone! **

**Plot note: In this chapter, Peggy goes along to free the prisoners, because she is a trained field agent, so there's no reason not to. I never understood why Peggy, who has more field experience than Steve at this point, would stay behind. Is it a gender dynamic thing?  
**

**Next week - a dramatic rescue!**


	10. Chapter 10

**At last, the big escape scene! Not gonna lie, I was looking forward to this chapter the entire time I was writing. I hope you enjoy it too. :-)**

**Thanks to everyone for following, favoriting, and just reading. You have no idea how much it means to me.**

* * *

Chapter 10 - November 2-3, 1943 - Kreischberg

* * *

The two women crouched beneath the trees, contemplating the blocky, concrete building that squatted in front of them. It was composed of two wings, one larger, with huge bay doors and smokestacks - clearly the factory - the other wing off to the side, probably where the prisoners were kept when they weren't being used as slave labor. Floodlights bathed the facility in harsh white light, leaving the treeline deep in shadow. Peggy and Stevie had circled the building, scouting for the best point of entry, and now they were looking at it - a small door at the rear of the factory wing, close to the trees, watched by a solitary guard. Seeing the lack of security, Stevie could only assume that Hydra hadn't expected anyone to break _in_.

"What's the plan?" Stevie whispered as quietly as she could. "Sneak in?"

"Stealth would be easier if you hadn't brought _that_ along," Peggy replied, pointing to the star-spangled shield Stevie carried on her back.

"Shields can be very useful in hand-to-hand combat," Stevie said defensively. "And I don't think we would be able to disguise ourselves as guards anyway." She pointed to her own ample chest. "We don't seem the type."

Peggy grinned. "The old washerwoman trick is probably right out as well."

"Here's my idea," said Stevie. "I'll make some noise, lure him out here. Then, you can drop him from behind."

"I like it," said Peggy. "With one alteration - I'll lure him out, you drop him." She held up her hand to forestall Stevie's objection. "You're stronger than I am. More likely to knock him out with one blow."

Stevie hesitated, then nodded. Peggy slipped into the trees without a sound. A minute later, Stevie heard a rustling in the undergrowth. Somehow Peggy managed to make the exact amount of noise someone would if they were trying not to make any noise at all - a slight crunch of dry leaves, the whisper of fabric against branches. The guard at the door looked around, and stepped closer to the trees. Like all the guards they had seen, he wore a full face mask and goggles, which gave him the look of a giant insect.

"_Wer ist da?"_ He called, voice slightly muffled by his mask.

There was another furtive step from Peggy. A branch cracked. The guard raised his machine gun.

"_Ist jemand hier?"_

Stevie stepped out of the shadows on his left side. "_Guten tag,_" she said, and punched him in the face. He dropped like a sack of coal.

Peggy emerged from the trees and gave Stevie a wry look.

"It's all I remember from high school German," Stevie said.

* * *

At first glance, the inside of the factory looked like Stevie would have expected the inside of a factory to look. Machinery of unknown purpose, half-assembled tanks, curved sections of metal that brought to mind rockets and missiles. Then, Stevie saw the...she guessed they were batteries of some sort - circular bundles of cables the size of truck tires, lying on tables and set into the workings of engines. Each bundle was studded with what looked like small glass boxes, boxes that glowed with a strange blue luminescence, like captured starlight. Creeping closer to one of the batteries, Stevie pulled at a blue box and it came free in her hand. It was about the size of a pack of cigarettes, smooth and cool to the touch, but with a tiny buzz that vibrated in her fingertips.

_Stark will love getting his hands on this_, she thought. She slipped it into her pocket and, with Peggy, continued to advance into the building.

They crept around the perimeter of the factory floor toward the doors that would lead them to the prison, concealing themselves behind large curving sections of tank armor. Stevie felt as edgy as a stray cat, looking around constantly for guards, but the women reached the other side of the factory without seeing anyone. There were four doors, two at ground level, two partway up the wall, accessible by a metal staircase bolted into the concrete. Peggy gestured that she would take the ground floor, and Stevie the stairs.

Stevie drew the pistol Peggy had given her and walked up the stairs as quietly as she could. The door at the top had a glass panel at eye level, and she peered through cautiously into the prison - at her level, a catwalk ran all the way around the large room. The cells were below the catwalk so the guards could look down into them - bare metal and concrete, no beds, no blankets, the men inside huddled together against the chill. A guard came around the corner suddenly and Stevie ducked out of view. When his back was to her, she waved at Peggy and mouthed "_I'm going in._" Peggy nodded.

Stevie waited for the guard to circle the prison. Would she have to shoot him? She looked at the pistol in her hand. _I don't want to kill anyone_, she had told Dr. Erskine long ago, before watching him die. She still didn't want to. Not if there were another way. Stevie put her gun back in its holster. When the guard rounded the corner again, she slipped through the door and dropped him with a haymaker as soon as he turned around.

_Piece of cake_.

She fumbled in his pockets, and - _yes!_ \- there was a set of keys. Below her the pale ovals of faces peered up through the metal grating.

"Hi, fellas," she said with her best chorus-girl smile.

"Who are you?" One of them said, voice a blend of hopeful and hostile.

"Um…" Sal had been right. In the middle of such an act of derring-do, she couldn't introduce herself as 'Stephanie Grace Rodgers.'

"I'm Captain America."

* * *

On the ground level, Peggy and Stevie opened the cells with the guard's liberated keys. In every cell, Stevie looked for Bucky, but he wasn't there. When she asked the men, they told her there was some kind of lab on the floor above them. Sometimes prisoners were taken there by the doctor - Zola. Stevie's neck prickled at the name. In Peggy's story, she remembered, Zola had been interested in "the limits of human potential." She wasn't surprised when the men told her that those taken to the lab never returned.

Stevie and Peggy reunited in the middle of the room, the crowd of freed prisoners all around them, hushed but eager.

"What's the plan, Cap?" One of the men asked. He was as tall as Stevie and built like a refrigerator, with a big ginger mustache and a battered bowler hat that bore a sergeant's bars.

"The tanks and trucks are outside the northwest corner," she said. "From there, the treeline is eighty yards away. Capture as many tanks as you can, hit them as hard as you can, and then get the hell out of Dodge."

"My kind of plan," said the man.

"I don't like leaving all this behind us," said Peggy, pointing over her shoulder at the factory.

"You suggesting sabotage?" Stevie asked.

At the word, an exclamation in French came out of the crowd - a small man with a black mustache and disheveled, curly hair pushed himself in front of the rest, delivering an earnest monologue of which Stevie caught about one word in four. Peggy responded fluently, and the man laughed and clapped his hands.

"Luckily, we have an expert in sabotage right here," Peggy said. "Monsieur Dernier worked with the Resistance. Demolitions."

"Okay," Stevie said to the group. "Here's the plan. Agent Carter, take Dernier and any other men who want to go with you. Sergeant..."

"Dugan," said the big man.

"Sergeant Dugan, lead the team going out the front. Agent Carter's team will wait until you engage the guards - that way, they won't be able to come back and defend the factory."

The prisoners murmured as they passed the information from man to man and started to shuffle around into Dugan's group or Peggy's. Stevie turned to go.

"Wait," Peggy said. "Where are you going?"

"To clear the lab upstairs," Stevie said. "There might still be men up there." _Bucky might still be up there_, she thought. If Peggy guessed at Stevie's motivation, she gave no sign.

"By yourself?" She asked, frowning.

Another man stepped out of the group, scruffy, with a patchy beard and a shapeless knit cap. His eyes were almond-shaped and so dark they were almost black. Stevie thought he might be Japanese.

"Take me with you," he said. "I'm a medic - if anyone's hurt up there, I can help. And I can watch your back."

Sergeant Dugan scoffed. "Oh, _you'll _watch her back? Sure you won't stab her in it?"

The shorter man pulled his dog tags out of his shirt and held them up under Dugan's nose.

"I'm from Fresno, _Ace_," he said challengingly.

"Hey," Stevie said, stopping the men in their tracks. "We don't have time for this now. Dugan, take the outside team. Carter, Dernier, take the sabotage team. We only have one chance, so give 'em hell."

They were nodding. _Wow,_ Stevie thought. _They're listening to me. They're doing what I say. Weird. _

She turned to the medic. "What's your name?"

"Morita," he said. "Corporal Jim Morita."

"Alright, Corporal. You're with me."

* * *

Morita led Stevie to the second floor, which was dark, silent, abandoned, and decidedly eerie. They walked down a long, broad corridor - Stevie on the left and Morita on the right - opening each door in turn and shaking their heads at each other as one room after another turned up empty. The corridor ended in a t-junction, and Stevie gestured to Morita that she should take the left path and he the right - meeting back here when they were done. Morita nodded.

Stevie crept down the left path, checking the rooms. Empty. Empty. Empty - wait, there was something on the wall, a map. Stevie paused for a second to look closer. It was a map of Europe, studded with little black flags.

_Interesting_, she thought.

There was no time to spare. Stevie stepped back into the corridor - and froze. Someone was there, at the end of the hall, silhouetted against the light that streamed in through the windows - a short man, carrying a valise, the light glinting off a pair of spectacles. He saw Stevie and broke into a shuffling run. She began to run after him, knowing she could catch him easily - until a voice coming from behind a half-open door brought her up short.

"Sergeant...32557038...Barnes...James Buchanan...Sergeant...32557038…."

Hardly daring to believe her own senses, Stevie pushed the door open. Lying on what looked like a padded dentist's chair, bathed in sickly green light, was - undoubtedly, in the flesh - Bucky Barnes. The surge of relief Stevie felt was so powerful she nearly buckled at the knees, and if the situation were any less dire, she probably would have. She covered the distance between them in two quick steps. Bucky stared blankly up at the light, mumbling his name, rank and serial number over and over, his wrists and ankles strapped down with heavy leather cuffs. Stevie's imagination skittered off in several unpleasant directions.

"Oh my God, Bucky," she said breathlessly. She tried to unbuckle the straps holding him to the chair, gave up, and tore them off. They parted in her hands like paper. "It's me; it's Stevie."

It was like Bucky was coming back from somewhere deep inside himself - his sea-green eyes focused slowly, found Stevie's face, and he smiled so sweetly that it almost broke her heart.

"Stevie," he said, his voice hoarse.

She helped Bucky up from the chair, holding onto his arms to make sure he didn't fall. Out of the green light, she could see the half-healed bruises running down one side of his face, the split lip, the boxer's cut over one eye. Someone had beaten the hell out of him.

_What did they do to you? _

Without thinking she reached out and touched his cheek. He winced and she drew back.

"I thought you were dead," she said, tears stinging at the backs of her eyes.

"I thought you were smaller," he replied, staring at her. He seemed confused, woozy, maybe drugged.

Stevie laughed, but stopped before it could turn into a sob. "Come on," she said, pulling his arm over her shoulder. "Let's get out of here."

When he had hugged her that night at the World Expo, before he left, Bucky had felt strong and solid, like a wall that would always protect her. Now, leaning against her, he felt shrunken, fragile. Stevie could feel his ribs through his tattered shirt, and for an instant she wanted nothing more than to pick him up and carry him all the way back to Brooklyn where he would be safe.

"What happened to you?" he asked as she half helped, half dragged him from the room.

"I joined the Marines," she said.

"Did it hurt?"

He seemed to become more present, more aware with every step they took.

"A little," she lied.

"Is it permanent?"

"So far."

Morita was waiting at the junction with two other men, who looked the worse for wear, but not as bad as Bucky. Seeing them, Bucky stepped away from Stevie to stand on his own, swaying slightly.

"Zola was keeping them in cages, the sick son of a bitch," Morita said. "Barnes, good to see you, man."

The two other men were named Brooks and McDaniel, Brooks a young man who still had acne scars on his cheeks, McDaniel a grizzled father of two. Stevie was shaking hands with them and accepting their thanks when she heard Bucky growl.

"Get your hands off me!"

Morita held up his hands as if calming an injured animal, and no wonder. Bucky - jaw clenched, teeth bared, hands in fists - looked moments away from attacking him.

"Easy, man," the medic said. "Just wanted to make sure you were ok. That's a bad shiner you've got."

"Don't," Bucky snarled. "Don't touch me. Just don't."

"Fellas," Stevie said. They quieted instantly. "Do you hear that?"

Coming up the hall, the smack of boots echoed on the tiled floor. The lab wasn't was abandoned as they thought.

"Go, go go!" Stevie hissed, taking her shield from her back and her pistol from her thigh holster. She pushed the others ahead of her down the hallway - reasoning that, if the short man had vanished, there must be an exit that way.

The men broke into a run as best as they could. The guards began running too; Stevie could hear them getting louder, calling out in German. The men slipped through a door at the end of the hallway, Stevie bringing up the rear. As the guards turned the corner and lifted their machine guns, Stevie snapped the knob off the door and slammed it behind her.

_That'll take them a few minutes,_ she thought.

The door opened onto a catwalk - this one overlooking the factory floor, with a bridge to the opposite wall and, presumably, the exit. Behind Stevie came the thump of the guards trying to kick down the door, just as the noise of muffled shouts and gunfire came from outside. Dugan's team had engaged, which meant that Peggy's team would light up the factory any minute. It was time to get out.

"Ah, Captain America! How exciting," A voice called from the other side of the factory. German-accented, gloating and superior. "I am a great fan of your films."

The men around Stevie stiffened. The owner of the voice was a tall, lean man all in black leather - gloves, high boots and a long coat. He had a high forehead and a cruel, sneering mouth. At his side scuttled a man who could only be the figure Stevie had seen in the hallway - short and round, bald, with wire-rimmed glasses and a pinched, cringing face like some kind of rodent.

"Schmidt," growled Morita, which Stevie supposed made the shorter man Doctor Zola. Brooks and McDaniel were certainly looking at him with undisguised fear. Bucky, eyes fixed on the little man, looked like he might throw up.

"So Doctor Erskine managed it after all."

Schmidt swaggered up to the bridge and began to cross. Shield up, gun at her side, Stevie stepped onto the bridge as well, putting herself between this monster and her men. The two antagonists met in the middle, and Schmidt looked her up and down, lip curled into a derisive sneer.

"Not exactly an improvement, but still, impressive," he said. "In a way."

"You've got no idea," Stevie said defiantly. This man was the architect of so much death. How dare he stand there passing judgement on Doctor Erskine's work - a man he had as good as murdered himself? How dare he even mention Erskine's name?

"Haven't I?" Schmidt chuckled. "You see, no matter what Erskine told you _I_ was his greatest success."

He was close enough for Stevie to touch. Now was her chance - she could shoot him and put an end to everything. She raised her pistol, but Schmidt was faster - slapping her across the face before she could fire. The gun flew out of Stevie's hand and she staggered against the guardrail, head ringing. Behind her, the men cried out. She felt Schmidt step closer and raised her shield over her head just in time to block a strike like a hammer blow that would have caught her in the neck. The blow landed with a crack that shot all the way down Stevie's left side, and her shield split lengthwise down the middle.

Before Schmidt could recover from her unexpected block, Stevie knocked him off balance with a sweep of her cracked shield and gave him a hard jab right in the eye. He stumbled back from her, clutching his face, patting at the skin of his cheek like someone making sure a wig hadn't slipped. Under his hand, Stevie saw a line of red below one eye.

_He was clawing at his skin_, she remembered Peggy saying on their overnight drive long ago. _There was_ s_omething wet and red beneath._

At that moment, an explosion detonated directly below them - Peggy's team had succeeded. Stevie and Schmidt both fell to a crouch as the bridge lost a support beam somewhere and began to detach from the wall. Scrambling backward, Stevie barely made it onto the catwalk before the bridge collapsed.

"You are deluded, Fraulein!" Schmidt shouted over the shriek of tortured metal and overloading generators coming from below. He too had reached the catwalk safely, where he stood beside a terrified Zola.

"You smile and strut for the cameras, but you are afraid to admit you have left humanity behind," he smiled manically. The light of the burning equipment gave his face a demonic glow. "I embrace it proudly!"

At that he gripped the back of his neck, and, to Stevie's horror, peeled off his face like a rubber mask.

"What...the hell?" Morita breathed.

No nose, no ears - Schmidt's face, his real face, was like tight red leather stretched over an animated skull, in which a pair of blue eyes glittered madly.

_A red skull_, Stevie thought inanely. _It's a red skull._

"You don't have one of those, do you?" Bucky asked, voice choked with terror. But that wasn't possible. Bucky wasn't afraid of anything.

Another explosion rocked the factory. Zola pulled frantically at Schmidt's arm, and - although he didn't deign to look at the smaller man - Schmidt turned with a flourish and strode briskly out of the building, trying to make it look like he wasn't running for his life.

There was no other bridge to join the two catwalks - but a few yards along they found a beam running the width of the factory, part of a huge gantry, that the men could cross carefully one by one. Stevie insisted that the men go ahead of her - even Bucky, despite his objections - since she was the most able-bodied member of the group by far. When Bucky was about halfway across, and Stevie was about to begin crossing herself, the door behind her finally burst open, the three Hydra guards charging through onto the catwalk, guns raised.

"_Erschieẞen!_" The lead guard shouted, pointing at the men.

_Oh, no you don't_.

Stevie rushed the guards with a wordless cry. They shot at her, but not fast enough - Stevie had already ducked and rolled under the burst of gunfire. Coming up, she scooped her cracked shield under the lead guard's chest and her free arm under his leg, and heaved him over the guardrail - dropping him to the burning factory floor two stories down. She grabbed the second guard by the back of the head and slammed his face into the concrete wall with a sound like someone cracking open a lobster. As he fell, she drove the top of her broken shield up under the third guard's chin as hard as she could - so hard that it splintered completely apart. He dropped, twitching, and then was still.

_I don't want to kill anyone_, she had told Doctor Erskine. She had just killed three people without even breaking a sweat.

_They would have shot me, and Bucky, and the rest_, she thought. Then, _I should take the guns - we'll definitely need those_.

She had exchanged her splintered shield for the pair of machine guns and was running down the catwalk when the gantry, weakened by the fires and detonations below, groaned like a dying thing and fell, leaving her staring at Bucky across the width of the factory. She'd have to go back through the prison to get out, braving who knows how many guards.

"Just go!" She shouted to the men on the other side. "Get out of here!"

Morita and the others hesitated, but not Bucky.

"No!" He shouted, as if he could buoy her over the gap with the power of his words. "Not without you!"

Even across the factory she could see his eyes fixed on hers, body rigid, stubborn determination in every line. There were at least fifty feet between him and Stevie; could she jump that far? Might as well try, or he'd stay here and let the building burn down around his ears, the idiot. Stevie took a deep breath and back up to give herself a running start.

_Here goes nothing_, she thought.

One, two, three steps - and she launched herself into the air, pushing off the guardrail with a powerful leap. She soared in a way that would have been exhilarating if it weren't so terrifying - pinwheeling her arms and legs as if would help her push herself through the air. A ball of fire bloomed ahead of her, and she crossed her arms over her face, shutting her eyes tight. She felt the blast of heat, the end of her braid singing off, and then she was crashing into someone, rolling on hard metal

"Ouch," Bucky said. She had landed half on top of him. "You got really heavy, Stevie."

"Is that any way to talk to a lady?" she said, and, pulling him to his feet, dragged him out of the factory behind Morita and the rest, before the whole catwalk came crashing down behind them.

* * *

**Notes: ****More minor plot changes in this chapter - to fix my pet peeves, mainly. :-)**

**Language notes:**

**You can probably guess these from context, but here they are, anyway. **

_Wer ist da? - _Who's there?

_Ist jemand hier? -_ Is someone there?

_Erschieẞen! -_ Shoot them!

**If I got anything wrong, I apologize to all speakers of German!**


	11. Chapter 11

**Alert readers may notice that I'm a bit off my usual schedule - I took last Sunday off for Easter, and tomorrow is my daughter's first birthday, so I'll be a little busy then, too. I should be back to the usual Sunday updates next week. **

**Thanks for reading, following, reviewing, etc.!**

* * *

Chapter 11 - November 3-4, 1943

* * *

"This would be easier if you would sit still," Peggy said, doing her best to trim Stevie's hair by the light of a Lucas lamp propped on a table. The fireball that had singed off the end of Stevie's braid had not done so evenly - when she had finally taken her hair down it looked like she had mange.

"Sorry," Stevie said, sketchbook open on her knees. "It's a map I saw in the factory. I just want to get it down before I forget."

She had been surprised to find the image of the map lodged in her memory like a photograph. Was it something else the serum had given her? Like the ability to jump fifty feet and outrun a taxi? The pencil in Stevie's hand continued to trace the lines of the map, perfectly reproducing the picture in her memory, while her mind floated freely to the events of the previous night.

* * *

From the burning factory, Stevie and the men plunged into a maelstrom. Her ears, abused and ringing from the explosions inside, made the battle sound as if it was happening underwater - distant and unreal. The scene itself was like something out of a nightmare: broken bodies strewn on the ground, the husk of a truck overturned and burning, tanks firing bolts of blue light that smelled like hot metal and turned the men they hit into puffs of smoke.

Stevie ran at the head of her little band, every nerve alert, striking out with fists and feet, knees and elbows. Someone tried to grab her from behind and she broke his nose with a quick backward jerk of her head. Bucky had one of the machine guns she had taken from the guards, and used it with lethal efficiency - gunning down one man after another in short, controlled bursts, his face set like stone. By the time they reached the trees, their party had expanded from five to twelve.

They cut through the forest, travelling by the light of a waning moon. Patches of early snow lay beneath the trees like white shadows. After what might have been minutes or hours, they met the rest of the escapees coming up the road in a convoy of captured trucks and tanks - a soot-smudged Peggy Carter leading at the wheel of a Mercedes-Benz Maultier. To Stevie's men; footsore, battered and shaking from cold; that bare troop carrier looked as welcome as a five-star hotel suite. As Peggy drove slowly down the mountain track, lights off so they wouldn't be seen from the air, Stevie told Bucky everything - from her recruitment to Project Rebirth to her plan to rescue the prisoners. He listened silently, and when she was done he asked, again, if it had hurt.

"No. No!" said Stevie, glad the dark was hiding her face. She was a terrible liar, especially where Bucky was concerned. "Well, a little."

"How little?"

"Like...like going to the dentist."

She could feel Bucky's skepticism coming off him like heat from a stove, but he didn't push it, and soon he dozed off - his head bobbing on Stevie's shoulder as the truck bumped along the gravel road. Stevie closed her eyes and took a deep breath, savoring the feeling of him next to her, real and solid and safe.

They reached camp the next morning with the rising sun, Stevie walking ahead of the convoy to make it clear to the scouts that they weren't under attack. She had planned to go in and talk to Colonel Phillips alone, but Peggy and Bucky had taken up positions on either side of her - Peggy striding determinedly with her chin up, Bucky holding his gun as if he still expected to be attacked. Others fell in behind them - first Morita, Dugan, and Dernier; then Brooks and McDaniel; then more and more until Stevie felt like she was leading a parade.

Within minutes of being seen by the scouts, they were surrounded - men were cheering, men were crying, some were running into the line to embrace friends they had thought lost or to help the wounded. Colonel Phillips came out to meet them, an uncharacteristically disheveled Howard Stark behind. Stevie stopped and saluted as best as she remembered from her week of training.

"Colonel," she said, voice steady, eyes front. "I'd like to surrender myself for disciplinary action."

The Colonel looked as close to moved as Stevie had ever seen him, his brown hound-dog eyes taking in the crowd of men behind her - not just the survivors of the 107th, but members of other Allied units, French Resistance fighters, and political prisoners - hundreds of them. The Colonel's chin quivered and he cleared his throat.

"That won't be necessary," he said hoarsely. "And you, Agent Carter. What do you have to say for yourself?"

Peggy wore a smile that missed smugness by a hair's breadth.

"I had faith, sir."

The Colonel snorted. "Faith, huh?" But he patted Stevie's shoulder before he left, and she thought she saw his eyes glistening.

With Colonel Phillips gone, Stark stepped forward, normally smooth hair in disarray, as though he had been running his hands through it. The Colonel had probably raked him over the coals.

"You're late," Stark said to her with - was it relief?

They were surrounded by people, but he was staring at her like she was the only person in the camp. Stevie pulled the transponder out of her pocket - the one he had given her on the plane. It had a bullet lodged in the center. She dropped it into his palm, and he looked from it to her with a furrowed brow.

"I couldn't call my ride," she said. Stark's eyes were burning with a feeling Stevie couldn't identify. Something was happening in the pit of her stomach, a not-unpleasant fluttering.

Behind her, Bucky suddenly shouted. "Let's hear it for Captain America!"

The cheers were deafening.

* * *

In the tent, Peggy snipped away behind Stevie's ears, tilting her head gently to one side and another as she made whatever adjustments she thought were necessary. Stevie was amazed at herself - she had done things she hadn't even imagined she was capable of. She had felt scared, yes, but also exhilarated. Purposeful. Like she was doing what she was meant to do for the first time in her life.

"There," Peggy said. "Finished! Take a look."

Stevie tried to get a good look at herself in the compact Peggy was holding up to her. Her hair was shorter than she liked, cut to just below her chin. It made her eyes look huge.

"Not bad if I say so myself," Peggy said. "You look like Carole Lombard."

Stevie snorted. "I doubt that. But it does look good. Hey, I'm done, too."

She held up the sketchbook so Peggy could see it.

"Ring any bells?"

Peggy leaned over Stevie's shoulder and pointed at one of the triangles.

"That's Kreichsberg," she said. "Think the others are all Hydra stations as well?"

Stevie nodded. She closed the book and set it aside, then turned to the other woman.

"Peggy," she said. "I have an idea."

* * *

**I know - it's a short chapter after a long-ish wait. But I didn't do it on purpose, I swear! That's just how it turned out. Next week will be bigger - with the formation of the Howling Commandos, some Stevie/Howard flirting, and a Bucky flashback. Stay tuned!**

**Historical Notes: **

**Lucas lamps were portable electric lamps from the WW2 era. They have little folding stands, kind of like a picture frame, so they can stand up. The Mercedes Benz Maultier is a garden-variety troop carrier.  
**


	12. Chapter 12

**Thanks everyone for reading, following, favoriting - and especially for reviewing. I love hearing what you think of my story. So if you have questions, comments, or constructive feedback of any sort, please let me know! :-)  
**

* * *

Chapter 12 - November 5, 1943

* * *

Stevie's idea - to put together a team of commandos and take down as many Hydra bases as they could - went over surprisingly well. Colonel Phillips had said he "couldn't argue with her results" and smiled broadly. As for the composition of the team, Peggy was a given, as was Bucky - Stevie wouldn't dream of leaving him behind, even if he would ever agree. Aside from those two, Stevie nominated Corporal Morita for his medical skills and Dernier for his facility with explosives. Peggy suggested adding Sergeant Dugan, along with two others - Private Gabriel Jones ( of the 107th, like Bucky) and Lieutenant Montgomery Falsworth (of the British 3rd Independent Parachute Brigade) - whom she said had displayed "leadership and courage" during the escape.

Stevie had set up the meeting at a tavern in Azzano - a beautiful, whitewashed building, miraculously untouched by the fighting. Peggy gathered the men at a table to explain the situation - and soften them up with drinks - while Stevie talked to Bucky at the bar. Since the previous day he had cleaned up and found a new uniform, but he still looked disheveled and tired. There was a shadow over him that Stevie had never seen before. She thought he would object to her plan, but he said he'd wait and see what the others decided.

When she walked up to the table to talk to the men, Stevie channelled all her USO experience, stood up straight, and gave them her most charming smile. She was prepared to lay out several excellent points, including historical examples, but it turned out she needn't have bothered.

"You saved my life," Corporal Morita said. "You saved all our lives. I'm in."

"Well said, Jim." Sergeant Dugan clapped Morita on the back hard enough to make him spill his beer.

"Besides, I saw you fight your way out of the factory." He wagged a stubby finger at Stevie and grinned. "Not very ladylike, but I enjoyed it."

One by one, the rest agreed - Dernier in a burst of enthusiastic French which garnered a laugh from young, dark-skinned Private Jones. Lieutenant Falsworth, reserved and impeccable in a maroon beret and ascot, said that it "sounded rather fun, actually." All the while, Peggy Carter wore a slight smile and a raised eyebrow, as if to chide Stevie for her doubts. Stevie ordered a round for the table, and returned to the bar to tell Bucky that it was official - they had a team.

"So, what about you, Sergeant Barnes?" Stevie asked, snagging a beer from the barman - a short man, almost as skinny as she used to be. "Ready to follow Captain America into the jaws of death?"

"Nah," he replied, and for a second Stevie's heart lurched. "That skinny girl from Brooklyn. The one who's too dumb to run away from a fight. I'm following her."

"You really know how to charm a lady, Buck."

"Well, of course." He knocked back the rest of his drink - something green and bitter - and looked at her with a sidelong grin. "You're my friend. You and me 'til the end of the line, Miss Pigeon."

"Yeah, well you're still a jerk." Stevie said, smiling into her beer. She felt warm all down to her toes.

* * *

"What the hell is he doing here?" Bucky said suddenly, voice gone sharp and hard.

There, on the other side of the room, was Howard Stark, in a flashy silk tie, standing out from the men in uniform like a robin among crows. He must have spotted her at the bar, because he smiled and started weaving his way between the crowded tables. Stevie rose, her stool making a loud scrape against the floor. She felt awkward and ungainly, suddenly conscious of her bobbed hair and not-entirely-fitted men's fatigues. If only Doris from the USO were here to fix her hair in the powder room.

"Captain Rogers," Stark said, flashing his dimples.

"Mr. Stark," she replied.

"Call me Howard."

"Alright...Howard." Stevie could feel Bucky behind her like a prickly stormcloud. "How can I help you?"

"I have some equipment for you to try. How's tomorrow morning?"

"Sounds good."

"Also, I wanted to apologize for any confusion there was on the plane." He leaned close to her. "About fondue."

"Oh?" Stevie's face felt hot. She was probably blushing again. _Damn it - they couldn't take that away along with the asthma?_

Stark's breath tickled her cheek as he murmured into her ear.

"Fondue...is just cheese...and bread."

He pulled back, smiling cheekily.

"I knew that," Stevie said. She did her best to sound breezy and unconcerned, but her voice came out sounding breathy and embarrassed instead.

"Uh huh…" Stark replied. "Well then, maybe you'd like to try it some time."

"Fondue? With you?"

Bucky stepped between them. For a moment, Stevie had forgotten he was there.

"Any time, Stark. Let's go." He was smiling, but his eyes were sharp. Stark turned to him, his own smile unchanged.

"Sure thing, Barnes," Stark said, punching him lightly on the shoulder. "We'll double date." With a wink at Stevie, he sauntered away.

"And who does he think he is?" Bucky said to Stark's departing back.

"I thought you'd jump at the idea of double dating with Howard Stark," Stevie replied, taking a sip of her beer.

"Seriously? Him? Strutting around, with that dumb mustache...thinks he's God's gift to women…"

"And who does that remind you of?"

* * *

"So I hear you like shields." Howard Stark's voice vibrated with suppressed excitement.

Stark and his assistants had been working to equip Stevie's team - the assistants with an air of harassed sleep-deprivation, Stark with the energy of a child who got to play with all his favorite toys. He had just shown Stevie her new uniform - made of "carbon nanopolymers", whatever those were. It would stop knives and small-caliber arms fire, and it kept the color scheme of her USO costume - though slightly more muted, thank heavens.

Now, in a captured warehouse that been converted into Stark's lab, Stevie was considering a table full of shields, Bucky strolling behind her. Stark was looking from the table to her and back again as if eager to see her reaction. The shields were kite-shaped, lozenge-shaped, rectangular, cruciform; with all sorts of features like concealed weapons, magnetized plating and electric shock probes. How had Stark had the time to make all these? It had barely been three days since Stevie had assembled the men - who had started calling themselves the "Howling Commandos", probably Dugan's idea. Out of the corner of her eye, Stevie saw a gleaming half-moon peeking out from under the table. When she picked it up, it turned out to be a simple convex circle of polished metal.

"What's this one do?" She asked, interrupting Stark, who was demonstrating another shield's extendable armor panels.

"That? It's just a prototype."

Stevie hefted it a little; though light, it felt very solid. The balance was exquisite - she was pretty sure she could throw it like a discus. Stark clicked the panels back into place and stood behind her.

"It's made of vibranium," he said. "The rarest metal on earth."

"How rare?"

"That's all of it. Well, all I had ready access to, at least."

Stevie raised her eyebrows. "Wow. That is rare."

"It has unique properties to absorb and deflect energy." Stark took the shield and bounced it off the floor, right back into his hand. He braced it on his left arm.

"Here," he took her hand and placed it on one side of the shield, then knocked on the middle. Stevie didn't feel anything - the shield had muffled all the vibrations. "Neat, huh?"

Bucky was suddenly at her elbow. "Maybe we should test it," he said voice all ice and edges. His pistol was in his hand, and he was pointing it at the shield - and Howard Stark.

"Bucky," Stevie said. "What are you doing?"

"Just seeing if Stark's willing to put some skin in the game." He spoke without looking at her, glaring instead at Stark. "After all, it's not his life on the line."

"Any time, Sergeant Barnes," Stark's pleasant smile had turned into something fixed and sharp.

Stark was on one side of her, holding the shield, Bucky on the other, pistol at the ready. An energy was crackling between the two men - a threat.

"Bucky, stop," Stevie said.

"I stand behind my work, Barnes," Stark said softly.

"Mind if I take that literally?" Bucky pulled the hammer back with a click. His eyes were cold, and he wasn't even pretending to smile anymore. Stevie had never seen him like this.

_He's really going to shoot._

"Sergeant Barnes!" She barked, putting all the authority she could into her voice. He turned, surprised, glaring at her. "Stand down. Now."

Bucky's jaw spasmed, but he holstered his gun.

"Yes sir," he spat the words. "Captain." And he stormed away, kicking over a chair as he left.

_What was that about?_

"Ummm…" she said to Stark. "I'm going to go."

"I'll just put some finishing touches on this one then," Stark said, perfectly at ease, as though nothing had happened.

* * *

Bucky was angry.

He sat at a table into what had become the unofficial assistants' breakroom. Three of the assistants had, in fact, been there when he entered, but the look on his face sent them scurrying off to their projects. His pistol sat in pieces in front of him. Breaking it down, cleaning and oiling it, putting it back together again - the ritual helped Bucky occupy his hands and calm his mind. It had been useful after missions, back at the beginning, but lately it hadn't been helping as much. Since returning from Kreichsberg, Bucky felt like a raw nerve; the slightest thing could set him off. Below the surface, he was angry all the time.

Now he was angry at Stark - the way he looked at Stevie, the way he slimed around her like she was one of his chorus girls. As if he knew anything about her, as if he would have looked at her twice before she had...changed.

Thinking of Stevie made him angry, too. He had left her safe, in New York, only to have her turn up here in the heart of danger. She said whatever the army had done to her hadn't hurt, but Bucky knew she'd been lying. Because it had hurt him, what Zola had done. That had hurt a lot.

* * *

_The cells were cold and clammy after the heat of the factory. Even though he was exhausted, Bucky stomped in place and rubbed his hands together to stay warm. Two guards walked down the row of cells, picking men to take upstairs. Zola's last batch must have died - again. They didn't last very long up there._

_The men in the cells looked down and shrank in on themselves, hoping not to be noticed. The guards had to pick someone, though, and they did - a man whose blunt nose and freckles made him look younger than he was. _

"_No, please!" He said as they seized him roughly by the arms. "Please, I have a family! I have kids!"_

_Stupid. Didn't he know that begging never did any good?_

_Bucky saw Stevie's face in his mind. Big blue eyes staring up at him through her coke-bottle glasses. _I couldn't just walk on by, _she said. _

_Shit._

"_Hey," Bucky said, gripping the cold bars in his hands. "Hey! Krauts!"_

_The guards turned to look at him, but with those masks they wore he couldn't tell what reaction he was getting. Better pull out all the stops. He gave them a cheeky grin and spoke in the best German he could muster - using all the words Mrs. Borgstedt hadn't taught in class, that had gotten him detention more than once. When they shoved the blond man back into his cell and came for him, he laughed, because he knew he had succeeded. He laughed until the guard's heavy fist slammed into his face._

_He woke up strapped to a chair. _

"_Ah, you're awake," a soft, accented voice said. _

_Bucky blinked; there was a light mounted right above him, making it hard to see. Turning his head revealed the source of the voice - a small, round man, with pinched features and watery eyes behind wire-rimmed spectacles. His heart kicked into high gear and his mouth went dry. His face and ribs hurt from the beating the guards had given him - but whatever happened next would hurt a lot more._

_The small man touched Bucky's face and made a 'tsk' noise. Bucky barely stopped himself from flinching._

"_I apologize for the behavior of the guards," he said. "I abhor unnecessary violence."_

_Bucky looked straight ahead. "Barnes. James Buchanan. Sergeant. 32557038."_

"_Of course," the small man said, with a slight smile. "Well, Sergeant Barnes, I am Doctor Arnim Zola." _

_He turned to a table out of Bucky's line of sight and returned with a syringe of green liquid. _

"_And I am going to make you better. Much better."_

_Moments after being injected, Bucky's arm began to burn. _

"_Barnes...James Buchanan...Sergeant…"_

_The burning slowly spread from his arm to his whole body, as if his blood were being replaced with acid. He struggled against the straps._

"_32557038...Barnes…"_

_It was getting worse. He felt like his blood was boiling, like he was burning from the inside._

"_James Buchanan...Sergeant..32…32...Argh!" _

"_Fascinating," said Doctor Zola, but Bucky could only scream and scream and scream. _

* * *

Bucky came back to himself suddenly, still sitting at the table, gripping the edge so hard it hurt. His whole body was shaking.

_No. No!_

He took a deep breath. He wasn't in Kreichsberg anymore. Another breath. It was over. They would never take him back. Another breath. He could smell oil and gunpowder, reassuring scents. He let go of the table and returned to the gun, the anger rushing back to replace his fear. What did Stevie think she was doing out here? She wasn't a soldier, she could get hurt - shot, or blown up, or…

In his mind's eye, Bucky saw her strapped to that damn chair, screaming.

_No. No! No!_

That would never happen.

"I'll die first," he growled to himself.

This time, it took more than a few deep breaths until his hands stopped shaking.

"Knock, knock."

Bucky started. It was Stevie, carrying two steaming tin mugs of coffee. Without her habitual braid to contain it, her cropped hair bounced in unruly waves around her face. She sat down next to him and handed him a mug. Would he ever get used to how tall she was now?

"I thought for a second you were going to shoot Stark," she said. "Which would have made Colonel Phillips very unhappy."

Bucky took a sip of the bitter brew and winced.

"Stark pisses me off," he said. "But you were right; I was way out of line. Won't happen again."

They sat for a few moments, the silence broken by soft slurps as they drank.

"Bucky, are you doing alright?" Stevie asked, eyes full of worry and compassion. "You want to talk about anything...about what happened?"

Bucky felt a stab of shame for upsetting her with his stupid problems. Stevie had rescued over two hundred prisoners from Kreichsberg, and none of them were going off the deep end like he was. He put on his best smile.

"Me?" he said. "I'm great."

As if, by saying it, he could make it true.

* * *

**Nothing like a little Bucky angst to brighten up you day, am I right? **

**Next week - Stevie goes on a date! (Of sorts.)**

**Random note: The green liqueur Bucky is drinking is Centerba, an drink made in northern Italy from various plants and herbs, the exact proportions of which are a closely guarded secret. it can be up to 150 proof, and has a spicy, bitter taste.**


	13. Chapter 13

**Hello everyone! Here in Colorado, it is a rainy morning - perfect for writing. I hope all of you are having a lovely morning wherever you are (or afternoon, or night - whenever you read this). **

**Thank you for reading, following, reviewing - or even just for taking a look. Writing this has made me happy, and I hope it's made some of you happy, too. Or at least, less bored. :-)**

**And now, on to the date! **

* * *

Chapter 13 - November 21 - 1943

* * *

Despite what Stark had said, fondue was a lot more complicated than just cheese and bread.

After an endless two weeks of intelligence-gathering and strategizing, the Howling Commandos were leaving for France the next day. That afternoon, out of the blue, Howard Stark invited Stevie back to the warehouse-cum-lab. He said he had "something to show her."

_Why now? _She wondered as she walked across the gravel lot in front of the building, the white stones crunching under her boots. _What could he have come up with that I haven't already seen?_

Stevie was surprised to find the lab empty when she arrived. During the past few days' frantic preparations, the workroom had been bustling with assistants at all hours - arguing with each other, wielding strange tools, taking things apart and putting other things together, running to get parts and flip levers - all presided over by Stark, who called out orders like a general directing his troops. Now the empty room looked strange, eerie. It was dark outside, and the floodlights the team had set up turned the vast space into a surreal chessboard of light and shadow.

"What do you think?"

Stark stood at a table in the center of the room, wearing, of all things, a tuxedo. Stevie had to step carefully over snarls of wire and around chunks of disassembled machinery to reach him.

"I think a tux is a strange choice for lab wear," she responded.

"I meant, what do you think of these?" He gestured expansively towards the table, at what looked like several long, rectangular bricks made of black metal.

"Go ahead, pick one up," he continued. "They're harmless without the detonator."

He even had a boutonnière - a red carnation. _How on earth did he get a hold of that, in November? _Stevie hefted one of the bricks in her hand - it was lighter than it looked, cool to the touch. She thought she could feel a slight buzzing vibration under her fingertips.

"What is it?" she asked.

Stark smiled. In the past few weeks, Stevie had learned that he liked nothing better than to talk about his creations to an appreciative - or at least tolerant - audience.

"Basically, it's a mine. It's based on the Miznay-Schardin Effect." His speech quickened with excitement. "See how one side is curved?"

One of the rectangle's long sides was, indeed, bent inward, with a stenciled message that read "Front Toward Enemy." Stark continued.

"When an explosive detonates against a hard backing, the blast is directed outward. In this case, from the curved side. Add a little of the blue stuff and the results are...dramatic."

"That's what's in here?" Stevie asked. That would explain the buzzing - it was subtler than the original blue energy core she had taken back from Kreichsberg, like a sound so high you felt it rather than heard it. "Dramatic is right. Didn't you blow up your old lab testing that?"

Stark had tried to direct an electric current through a fragment of the energy core - a drop of the blue, plasma-like substance at the center drawn off into a prism the size of a grain of rice. One touch with a spark and he had blown his quonset-hut laboratory to pieces - and been banished from the base by Colonel Phillips under the threat of a painful death.

"I've refined the process since then," he said, defensively. "I've added several safeguard mechanisms."

Stevie raised an eyebrow at him.

"Look," Stark took the device from Stevie. "The facility you're going after - it's underground, right?"

She nodded. One of the black triangles on the map she'd duplicated corresponded to a small French town called Magny-Danigon, just a few miles from the Swiss border. The Colonel had contacted a group of analysts called the "Bad Eyes Brigade," who, through some kind of research magic involving newspapers, radio transmissions, and export ledgers, had verified unusually high troop movement in the area, centered around an abandoned mine. The most reasonable explanation was that Hydra was using the mine to make or store something secret - some kind of weapon was Stevie's guess.

Stark pressed a stud on the side of the device and barbed metal prongs popped out of the rectangle's four corners.

"You can stick one of these boys on a cavern wall - or a ceiling," he said. "When you're outside, you use a transponder to signal the device. Goodbye mine, goodbye Hydra. And you and your team are safe outside with no tricky wires to deal with."

"That's great," Stevie said. "But shouldn't you be showing this to Dernier? He _is_ our explosives expert."

"I already did," Stark said. "But I thought, as captain, you would want to be familiar with all the weapons at your disposal." He set the device back on the table and busied himself with folding the prongs carefully back into its sides.

"Also, I thought it might impress you a little."

"Impress me?" Stevie asked incredulously. "Why would you want to...wait." An impossible idea came to her. "Is that why you're wearing a tuxedo? Is this a date?"

Stark looked at her mischievously and cocked his head. "Come on. I've got something else to show you."

She followed him to the breakroom and was surprised to find it transformed into a scene out of a café - a table set for two with a checked tablecloth and candlesticks, a bottle of white wine, a loaf of bread, and a strange little pot set up over what looked like a Bunsen burner.

"Fondue," Stark said, pulling out one of the chairs.

"I should have put on lipstick." Stevie sat and considered the pot dubiously. It was full of creamy, white, melted cheese. "So...how do you do this? Do you use a spoon?"

It turned out, you were supposed to use long, slender forks - Stark demonstrated, tearing off a bit of bread and dipping it in the pot. It was harder than it looked; Stevie caught a blob of cheese in her free hand just before it would have fallen into her lap. She licked it off her fingers, then belatedly realized that wasn't exactly good table manners.

"Sorry," she said.

"Don't worry about it," Stark said magnanimously. "Fondue takes practice."

"You seem like a man who's had a lot of practice. Fondue-ing."

"I don't fondue with just anybody, Captain Rogers," he said, pouring her a glass of wine and wiggling his eyebrows suggestively.

"Just starlets and chorus girls."

"Lucky for me, you're both."

Stevie put down her fork.

"Stark," she said.

"Howard," he interrupted.

"What's this about?"

He dabbed his mouth with a white cloth napkin before he answered. The ancient radiator in the corner hissed and popped in the silence.

"I remember you walking into that lab in Brooklyn," he began, his voice soft and earnest, nothing like it had sounded a moment ago. "Tiny little thing with big, coke-bottle glasses. I thought, a room full of generals and she has more guts than all of 'em, because she's really putting it all on the line."

There was no grin on his face, for once. No dimples. His eyes were focused on Stevie with an almost hypnotic intensity. They were so dark they looked black, and she could see the candlelight reflected in them, tiny glittering flames.

"When they sealed you in, the look on your face gave me goosebumps. You were so...determined. And then you stepped out of the pod," His smile came back, languid and slow. "I saw my work and thought, Stark, you are a genius."

_And just like that, the_ _grandstanding show-off is back._

"_Your_ work?" Stevie said. She didn't know whether to feel offended or amused. "Didn't Dr. Erskine have something to do with it?"

Stark waved away her objections.

"So you're Pygmalion," she continued. "You're falling for your own creation."

"I've been called a pig before," Stark said, taking a sip of his wine. "But never a Pygmalion."

"There's a first time for everything," Stevie replied, trying the wine herself. It was dry, crisp. She hadn't had much wine, but it tasted expensive.

"True," said Stark. "Take me for example. I've dated a lot of beautiful, talented women." Stevie rolled her eyes at him. "But you - you're a genuine American hero. And I've never met one of those before. Well, except myself, of course."

Stevie didn't know what to say. Stark could change from sincere admiration to unbridled egotism in the blink of an eye. But the way he looked at her - no one had ever looked at her like that before, as if she were something rare and precious. Stevie felt caught between excitement and anxiety, like the blue energy core was buzzing deep inside her chest, and, in her agitation, she fumbled her little fork.

"Oops! Oh...jeez," She managed to catch it without burning herself, but the bread had disappeared into the pot without a trace. "I think I lost it."

"Here," In a moment, Stark had deftly retrieved it, holding it out to her on the end of his own fork.

"Thanks," Stevie said, taking the fork from his hand. She was beginning to think fondue wasn't worth the trouble. The Swiss must have steady hands and a lot of spare time.

"Sorry for the table manners. I didn't go on many dates back home."

"No problem," Stark said, as she returned his fork. "I'll take my kiss now."

"Beg pardon?" Surely she had misheard him. Demanding...no, not even demanding, expecting...a kiss was arrogant even by Stark standards.

"If you lose your bread, you have to kiss whoever gets it back for you," Stark explained, to Stevie's incredulous expression. "It's tradition."

"That's bull. You made that up."

"It's alright," he shrugged. "You don't have to kiss me. If you're chicken."

"I'm not _afraid_ to kiss you, Stark," she said. "I'm not afraid to kiss anyone."

"Whatever you say, Rogers," he said. And then he actually began making clucking noises.

"Stop that! What are you, twelve?" Stevie meant to sound stern, but she couldn't help smiling. He laughed, and she could see why so many women liked him. He had a sweet smile, soulful eyes, a nice mouth. At the thought, she saw a flash of Bucky's face in her mind, disapproving, but she shook it off. Sure he didn't like Stark, but she hadn't liked all his girlfriends either and that hadn't made any difference. Stevie had never kissed anyone before, and tomorrow she was leaving for France.

_Why shouldn't I kiss Howard Stark?_

She walked slowly around to his side of the table - his dark eyes fixed on her face like it was the most important thing in the world. Stevie's heart was hammering in her chest; the stupid thing couldn't seem to tell the difference between going on a date and going into battle. Stark stayed sitting, hands in his lap, letting her take the lead. She cupped his face in both hands, took a deep breath, and kissed him, quickly, before she could lose her nerve. His lips were soft and warm under her mouth, and his moustache prickled her upper lip. After a moment, she let go and pulled away, face hot, hands shaky.

_If he says something smart,_ she thought. _So help me, God,_ _I will knock his block off._

He smiled. "Eight," he said.

"Huh?"

"A strong start, with some room for improvement," he continued by way of explanation.

"Are you...are you giving me a score?"

"Care to try for a nine?"

Stevie balled up the nearest napkin and threw it at him. "I don't know why anyone likes you," she said, but she was laughing as she said it.

* * *

**You know, this is probably the most successful date Stevie's ever been on. Think about that for a second. Howard Stark is sort of half charming/half jerk, so let me know how well I struck that balance. **

**Lots of notes for this chapter:**

The devices Stark is showing Stevie are based on the original blueprints for the M18 Claymore mine. A bit ahead of its time, but Howard Stark is a genius. (And he'd be the first to tell you so.)

On the same line, the Miznay-Schardin Effect is real, and was discovered during WW2 - by a Hungarian and a German. Howard, how have you been getting research notes from enemy scientists?! Chalk it up to excellent military intelligence.

The Bad Eyes Brigade get a mention here - they were an elite research unit, and more info can be found at the War is Boring blog.

Magny-Danigon is a real French town, with a real abandoned mine outside of it.

In the language of flowers, a red carnation means "I admire you."

My mother-in-law, a legit Swiss person, assures me the fondue kiss is a real tradition. So Howard Stark, surprisingly, did not just make it up.

**Next week - the Howling Commandos blow stuff up!**


	14. Chapter 14

**Hello all! Thank you for reading! And thanks for the nice reviews you sent me this week - they really brightened my day. Some of you - well, one of you - mentioned liking my notes at the end of the chapter. (I'm a huge nerd, so I like to show my work.) You'll be happy - there are some interesting notes at the end of this chapter, too.**

**I have an apology to make. Last week, I said there would be an explosion in this chapter - and there isn't. This chapter kept getting longer and longer until it split in two, and the explosion ended up in Chapter 15. Here's what this chapter will contain:**

**Stabbing!**

**Shooting!**

**Punching!**

**Hallucinogens!**

**So I think you'll still enjoy it.**

***I just updated this chapter to correct my French, with help from Aleera GiacoRavenne. Thank you!**

* * *

Chapter 14 - Dec. 3, 1943 - Magny-Danigon

* * *

In the summer, the hills outside Magny-Danigon would be lush and green, surrounding a valley quilted with orderly little fields and farms. The only green left this time of year was pine and holly. Stevie and Bucky crouched behind the bare trees, ankle deep in snow, the shield - now decorated in patriotic red, white and blue - a reassuring weight on Stevie's back. She wore the body armor Stark had made for her, the white star poking out from under a tan mountain jacket, because it might stop a knife but it sure didn't do much against the cold. Below her, the mineshaft was a black shadow surrounded by an arch of dressed, gray stone. The two men guarding it wore goggles rather than the full face masks Stevie had seen on Hydra guards before, and white clouds of steam puffed around their heads as they chatted to each other.

"You take left," she whispered to Bucky as softly as she could, her voice barely a breath in his ear. "I'll take right."

He nodded. It was essential that they get into the mine quickly and quietly. The bulk of the Howling Commandos would be down the hill, liberating prisoners, leaving only four to take the mine itself - Stevie, Bucky, Dernier and Private Jones. If the two guards called for help, they could be outnumbered very quickly.

Stevie gave the signal and leapt down on her guard from above, knocking the rifle from his hands before he could raise it. He swung at her, but she seized his arm and twisted it behind his back, her left arm around his throat. Bucky had jumped an instant after her, and as Stevie watched, he plunged his dagger into the second guard's back.

The guard fell without a sound, as Stevie's own prisoner struggled futilely in her grip. She knew she could snap the man's neck with ease; kill him like she had killed the three men at Kreichsberg. Her arm tightened around his throat and he froze. Somehow it seemed different to kill a man who was already defeated. Colder. Crueler.

Bucky had already cleaned his knife and sheathed it in his boot. He was looking at Stevie expectantly, waiting to see what she would do. She released the guard, who fell to his knees, coughing.

"Tell him to take us in," she said, cocking her head at the guard.

"You sure?" Bucky asked.

"It's probably a maze down there," she said. She was justifying herself, making excuses after the fact, and she knew it. "Tell him he can lead us to the weapon, or he can join his friend."

The guard agreed quickly enough once Bucky had explained the situation, getting to his feet with a shaky "_Ja_" while he eyed Bucky's pistol nervously. He stood rubbing his throat with one hand as Dernier and Jones emerged from hiding, each carrying three of Stark's mines in an olive-drab backpack.

"Ready to make some noise, gentlemen?" Stevie asked. In their faces she saw what she herself was feeling; excitement, determination, and just a dash of anxiety.

"Oh, yeah," said Private Jones, his smile dazzlingly white in his dark-skinned face. "Born ready."

Even Stevie couldn't see more than a few feet into the shaft, but she could definitely smell it - a combination of cold earth, damp stone and stale air. She turned on the flashlight clipped to her jacket, Bucky barked something in German, and together, the four commandos followed the guard into the tunnel.

* * *

Of their party, Dernier was the oldest - at least fifty. His first name, Stevie had found out, was Jacques. On their way to Magny-Danigon, she had taken every chance to talk to him and improve her rusty, high-school French.

"_Vous...avez de la famille?"_ She asked. They were sitting next to a campfire, the warm red light accentuating the wrinkles on the older man's weathered face.

He smiled. About a head shorter than Stevie, he sported a perpetual five-o'clock shadow of grizzled stubble. Despite his area of expertise, he was perhaps the gentlest of all the Howling Commandos, the one who made friends with every stray dog they met and greeted every sunrise with a Latin prayer.

"_Oui,_" he responded. "_Une femme à la maison à Rouen._"

"_Et des enfants?"_

"_Nous avons trois garcons et une jolie fille._"

Dernier had left his home and family when he joined the Resistance, and he hadn't seen them in three years, but talking about his children filled him with serene joy. He wanted the war to be over quickly, he said, of course he did. But more than that, he wanted to give his children a France free of oppression.

If Dernier was the oldest of the Commandos, Private Gabriel Jones was the youngest - a few months shy of nineteen. The Frenchman had taken Jones under his wing, perhaps because he spoke fluent French, perhaps because he reminded Dernier of one of his sons. The young man became his unofficial assistant, Dernier sharing his vast expertise in all matters explosive. Whenever they were camped for the night or hiding out in abandoned barns, Jones would practice; agile, brown fingers assembling mock-ups of all Dernier's favorite lethal devices with certainty and grace.

"You're a quick study," Stevie said one evening, sitting down across from him at a rough table. They were all squeezed together in an old, half-ruined forest cabin while outside, a cold rain was turning into sleet.

"Thanks," he said. "I've always been good with my hands. You should see me play the piano."

"Oh yeah?"

"You are looking at the youngest cat to ever tickle the ivories at the Café Society on 7th Avenue."

Stevie whistled. "Classy joint. They must have been sad to see you enlist."

"Oh, they were. Many tears were shed. But my daddy wouldn't have had it any other way - he was a Harlem Hellfighter. Earned the Croix de Guerre in Séchault."

"Sounds like quite a guy."

"Oh yes." Jones shifted on his rickety stool, gesturing with a pair of needle-nose pliers. "One time, he and his buddy Roberts were surprised by a German patrol. Two men against twelve. When his ammunition ran out, he used his rifle as a club. They called him The Black Death."

Jones' hands stilled, his eyes looking somewhere far away - at images conjured from his father's stories.

"When his unit came back, the parade was seven miles long. Even Governor Smith was there to welcome them home." He came back from his reverie, smile fading. "But that didn't stop a bunch of yahoos roughing him up when he took the wrong seat on the train."

"That's horrible," Stevie said, quietly.

"That's why I'm here," Jones said briskly, returning to the intricate sprawl of wiring in front of him. "I heard some fathead was tearing up Europe because people didn't have the right color hair. Stupidest thing I'd ever heard, and I've heard some real humdingers. No one should have to be afraid because of who their parents are."

That last sentence was soft and serious, a simple declaration covering what was probably a lifetime of insults.

"I'm sure your father must be very proud of you," Stevie said.

Jones' smile came back like a sunrise, lighting up his whole face.

"You bet he is; I'm fighting beside Captain America! He's gonna go crazy when he finds out - he loves that new comic book."

"The one where I punch Hitler?"

"That's the one. I might have to get your autograph. Hey Barnes!" Jones called to Bucky, who was keeping watch just inside the door, a cigarette in his mouth, the collar of his blue wool jacket turned up against the rain.

"You're in there, too, aren't you?" Jones said, mock-innocently.

"Yeah," added Dugan, ginger moustache curving around a wide, wicked grin. "In tights!"

"Screw you, _Aloysius_," Bucky replied, aiming a rude gesture Dugan's way. "None of you assholes are getting _my_ autograph."

He looked back at Peggy, who was sitting on an upended bucket, trying to avoid the ceiling's many drips. "Sorry, ladies."

"Oh, no offence taken," she said airily. "I've heard much worse, believe me."

Stevie raised her hand. "Does that mean _I_ can get your autograph?"

Bucky's response to that was not very polite at all.

* * *

The mineshaft plunged deep into the hills, sloping sharply downward just beyond the entrance. Stevie, Bucky, Jones and Dernier - and their prisoner - followed a set of rail tracks that used to take carts of coal to the surface, back when the mine was still active. The lights clipped to their clothes made the shadows on the rough-hewn walls flicker and dance, as if they were alive. The path split, and the guard said something in German.

"He says it's on the left," Bucky translated, then replied brusquely, shoving the guard ahead of him.

They went left again, then right. The tunnel proceeded, still sloping down. Stevie could almost feel the weight above them, all that earth and stone. Passages began to branch off on their right, but they didn't take any of them.

_We'd have been lost in here without the guard_, Stevie thought. _Sparing him was the right decision._

Then why did she still doubt herself?

At the next side passage, the guard stopped and pointed.

"He says there's a cavern this way," Bucky said. "And a bit farther down, there's another. This is where they make and store the weapons."

"Two caves, and four of us," said Jones. "Should we split up?"

"If he's telling the truth," Bucky said darkly.

Stevie nodded. "We have to destroy both. Bucky, you and Jones take this one. Dernier and I will take the next one."

"And him?" Bucky pointed at the prisoner, who was looking back and forth between them nervously.

"I'll take him," she said.

"Dernier," she continued in French, "why don't you give Jones the detonator? That way our friend here can't trip the mines early." She switched back to English. "We'll regroup here and leave together. If Dernier and I take longer than fifteen minutes…"

"Not gonna happen," Bucky interrupted.

"Yeah, Cap, we don't leave without you," Jones said.

"Alright...well, be careful."

"Same to you," Bucky said, and, with one final glower in the direction of the prisoner, he led Jones down the tunnel until their flickering flashlights were lost in the darkness.

Now it was Stevie's turn to hold their prisoner at gunpoint as he led the way down the mineshaft. The tunnel seemed to stretch out in front of them forever, and Stevie wondered if the guard had lied, had split them up and led them into a trap, or was trying to get them lost down here under the mountain.

After passing several tunnels branching off from theirs, the guard stopped and pointed to a passage on their right, that, soon after the junction, opened up into a long, rough-hewn chamber. Two rows of huge, shining steel vats marched down either side of the cavern, looking for all the world like something you'd find in a brewery.

"_Mon dieu_," Dernier breathed.

"What the hell are they making?" Stevie said.

They walked cautiously down the center aisle, from one end of the chamber to the other, before Dernier chose two spots where Stark's mines would have the greatest effect. Although the ceiling was low, Stevie had to lift Dernier for him to place the mines, watching the prisoner warily the whole time. He waited stiffly but silently, hands up, eyes on the pistol at Stevie's hip. Could it be that he wouldn't try to make any trouble?

They had just finished placing the second mine when Stevie heard the scrape of footsteps against the stone floor.

"_Merde_," Dernier whispered, and the prisoner immediately began shouting.

"_Sie sind hier! Sie sind hier!" _

Stevie clubbed him across the back of the head, knocking him out, but the damage was already done. The sound of shouting came from somewhere to their right. She and Dernier just managed to dive behind one of the vats before the room lit up.

"_Merde!_" Dernier whispered again.

There must have been another passage into the room, one they had missed in the shadows behind the other vats, maybe one that led to another access shaft entirely. The sound of running, booted feet grew louder as the two commandos scrambled, crouched, between the vats and the wall, ducking from one shadow to another.

"_Da sind sie!"_

The shout was followed by a burst of machine gun fire. Stevie pushed Dernier behind the curve of a metal drum and shielded him with her body. Bullets ricocheted off stone and steel, and, as Stevie and Dernier cringed against the wall, an unlucky shot punched through the side of the vat right in front of them. A cloud of white gas exploded from the bullet hole, and Stevie rolled away, coughing, trying to stay behind cover as much as possible.

_Was that mustard gas? _She thought, covering her mouth with her sleeve and trying to breathe as little as possible. The gas was still hissing out of the puncture. Where was Dernier? He must have rolled in the opposite direction.

_It can't be mustard gas - mustard gas smells like onions._

That was what Mr. Durham the grocer had told her when she pestered him about the War. You would smell something like onions or garlic, and then your eyes and nose would start to burn. She breathed slowly. No burning. If anything, the gas smelled sweet - but that didn't mean it was safe.

Another staccato burst of gunfire. Stevie pressed her belly to the floor, peering beneath the raised bottom of the nearest vat. Three sets of boots were approaching cautiously down the center aisle, pausing to check behind each vat. If Stevie stepped out of her hiding place they'd shot her, but there might be a way to get the jump on them while keeping herself behind cover. Smoothly, carefully, with as little noise as possible, Stevie drew her pistol and unslung her shield from her back, calculating the angle between her, the row of vats across the aisle, and the approaching soldiers. It just might work - if the shield was as perfectly balanced as it seemed.

_Here goes nothing._

She stepped into the gap between two vats and hurled the shield across the aisle, as hard as she could. The guards barely had time to look up before the shield rebounded from the vat behind them with a clang like an enormous gong. It smashed into the group from behind, catching one of the guards square in the back, knocking him into a second and taking both to the floor. The third brought up his gun, but Stevie was faster - she shot him twice in the chest, then ran to the second guard and kicked him in the face before he could regain his feet. The first guard lay face down on the floor, unconscious - or dead. Stevie approached him cautiously, then crouched to retrieve her shield from beside him and sling it onto her back. He didn't move.

When she stood up the whole room lurched to one side.

_Whoa._

She stumbled and righted herself. The chamber, impossibly, was swaying from side to side like a ship at sea. She stood still until it stopped.

_I guess that gas wasn't so harmless after all_.

"Dernier," she called softly.

They had to get out of here - the guards might have radioed for help before entering the chamber; Bucky and Jones could be in danger. Stevie blinked. Something was wrong with her eyes - the bulbs hanging from the ceiling all seemed to have little rainbow halos. She shook her head and immediately regretted it as the room started rocking again.

Stevie heard something and whirled around as quickly as the swaying room would allow. There was Dernier, crouched in the shadows next to the wall. He was breathing hard, clenching and unclenching his fists.

"Jacques? _Tu vas bien_? We need to get out of here."

When he turned, she almost didn't recognize him, his face was so twisted with rage.

"Wha-" she began, and then he flew at her like a wild animal.

Surprised and off balance, Stevie fell backward, and then he was on her, like a cat, screaming and clawing at her eyes.

"Dernier, stop!"

Stevie dropped her gun and tried to shield her face with her hands. He scratched and pummeled at her forearms, got a hank of her hair and yanked, almost ripping it out. If she fought back, she could seriously hurt him, but if she didn't do something, _he_ would really hurt _her_. She got a leg under his chest and heaved him off to the side, rolling to her feet.

"It's me," she said, holding her hands out in front of herself as if to ward him off. "_C'est moi_, Stephanie!"

Dernier shook his head from side to side, beating at it with his fists as if trying to drive something out.

"That's it - fight it! Fight it, Dernier!"

For a second, Stevie thought she saw his eyes clear, awareness return. Then the moment was gone and he rushed her with a roar like a charging bull. She sidestepped and punched him in the jaw, dropping him instantly.

"Oh, God! I'm so sorry!" Stevie cried as she knelt over Dernier's unconscious form.

He was still breathing, thank goodness. She had tried to pull that punch, but her body didn't feel like it was entirely under her control. Taking her shield in her right hand, she hitched him up over her left shoulder like a sack of flour. It took three tries before she could stand up. Maybe this was what being drunk felt like. If so, Stevie didn't really understand the appeal.

* * *

Whatever drug was in that gas turned the tunnels into a nightmarish labyrinth. Stevie was having a hard time remembering how to get out; she felt like she was passing the same junctions and passages over and over. The flickering shadows on the walls turned into ghastly specters at the edges of her vision - huge black birds with teeth, spiders with human faces, men with empty eyes and gaping mouths.

_It's not real. It's not real_. She repeated to herself over and over, trying to slow her breathing. _It's not re-_

There, in front of her, was another Hydra guard, this one wearing a full gas mask. For a second, she thought he was another hallucination, the mask giving him the look of a monstrous, humanoid insect - but then he raised his machine gun. Reflexively, she flung her shield at him. It was an awkward throw - her reactions were off, her body sluggish and woozy - and the shield bounced harmlessly off a wall and clattered to the floor. She fumbled for her pistol, only to remember that she had dropped it in the cavern when Dernier had attacked her. She had nothing. The guard was going to shoot them.

And then, out of a side passage came a cry of rage, and Bucky Barnes tackled the guard to the floor, ripping off his gas mask.

"Don't touch her! Don't you touch her!" He roared, hitting the guard in the face again and again.

"Bucky," she said. The guard wasn't moving, but Bucky was still hitting him, over and over, with a noise like someone tenderizing meat with a hammer. "Bucky!"

He scrambled to his feet and stumbled to her.

"Are you alright? Did they hurt you?" He touched her arms, her face, as if searching for injuries. The guard's blood was on his knuckles, a spray of tiny droplets on his face.

"No one hurt me." _Except for Dernier, that is_. "I'm fine."

"I heard you screaming. I thought they had you."

"I wasn't screaming," Stevie said, confused.

Bucky didn't seem to have heard her. He was breathing quickly, looking over his shoulder at the shadows from which he had come, his pupils so large that his green eyes looked black.

"He's here," Bucky whispered.

"Who?"

"Zola," he swallowed nervously. "He was there, in the room. He said he had you, he said…" Stevie realized that Bucky was on the brink of panic.

"Bucky!" She interrupted sharply.

She took his arm with the hand that wasn't holding Dernier and squeezed, anchoring him to the present rather than whatever nightmares were in his head.

"I'm alright, but Dernier is...injured...and we need to leave. Where's Jones?"

"Guards surprised us after we mined the chamber. Dropped some kind of gas grenade on us. We got separated."

Bucky took the guard's gun and tossed Stevie's shield back to her. She tried not to look at the red ruin of the man's face, considering instead the tunnels around her, trying to remember where they were. She had to find Jones; he trusted her, he had followed her here and she would not, _would not_, leave him down here in the dark.

As if Stevie's determination had cleared the fog from her brain, her mental map suddenly snapped into place. There - they just had to go back a little and turn right twice. That would be the first chamber, where they had split up; as good a place to search as any.

* * *

Stevie went in first, Bucky so close behind her that she would bump him if she turned around. He was twitchy, jumping at every noise, while Stevie was still off-balance, stumbling like a drunk if she moved too quickly. The chamber, long and low, like the one Stevie had just left, was filled with crates and pallets like a stockroom. There were hundreds of boxes, stacked from floor to ceiling - filled with warheads and grenades, weapons to carry the gas they were making in the other room. Stevie imagined Hydra dropping the grenades into platoons, the warheads over cities.

_They'd tear themselves apart_.

"You said you placed the mines, right?" She asked Bucky.

"Yeah, all three."

That was good. If absolutely everything else went to hell, they could still blow this place up and keep the weapons from ever being used. At least, if they could find Jones and the detonator.

It felt like it took forever for them to search the room. Normally, she and Bucky could have split up and done the work in half the time, but Stevie didn't want him out of her sight - alone with whatever demons the gas had awakened. About three quarters of the way down the chamber, Stevie heard something. It sounded like someone... crying?

Following the noise led Stevie to the shadow of a large crate, where she found Jones, on his knees next to the bodies of three Hydra guards, weeping as though his heart would break.

"Private Jones," she said. "Good to see you."

He looked up at her with dark eyes full of despair, as hopeless as Stevie had ever seen anyone.

"Captain," he said. "What are we doing here?"

"We're leaving, Private," she said, trying to keep her tone light, a smile on her face. "Just a walk in the woods and we'll be kicking back in a Swiss chalet."

Jones stared down at his hands. He was holding the detonator. Bucky tensed beside her and Stevie put her hand on his chest to stop him from moving forward.

"But what good are we doing?" Jones continued. "People just keep hurting each other, killing each other. Why?" His face crumpled.

"Why?" He asked more softly. "Nothing will ever get any better."

Stevie could barely breathe. Jones was staring at the detonator, lightly running his thumb over the device that could collapse half a mountain on their heads. She put down her shield and crouched next to him - as well as she could with Dernier still slung over her left shoulder.

"Private," she asked. "Do you trust me?"

He looked at her through his tears. "Of course I do. You're Captain America - you saved my life."

"Would I ever lie to you?"

He shook his head. "No. I don't think so."

"Good." She held his eyes with her own, sky blue meeting mahogany brown. "Private, I personally guarantee that we will put an end to this war, but first we have to get out of this damn cave." She held out her hand. "What do you say?"

Jones hesitated, looking from the detonator to Stevie. Finally, he put the little metal box in her hand, and she breathed a silent prayer of thanks.

"I'll hold onto this," she said, and put it in her jacket pocket. This time, she could stand up on the first try. "Let's get out of here, boys."

* * *

**Yay! Howling Commando action! It is my favorite thing. **

**As always, I apologize to any speakers of French and/or German if anything said in those languages doesn't make sense. Feel free to drop me a line with corrections. I think most of the non-English text is clear from context, but, if not, Dernier has a wife and four kids in Rouen, three boys and one girl. The Hydra guards are pretty much saying "There they are!" as per usual.**

**And now, the notes!**

Pretty much everything Private Jones says about his father is based on actual stories of Black soldiers in WWI - yes, including fighting off twelve Germans with an empty rifle. The soldier who really did that was Henry Johnson, and he actually fought off twenty-four Germans. That's right - I toned his story _down_ to make it more believable. In a superhero fic. That guy was the bomb. Sadly the "getting beat up by White guys upon their return" thing was also true.

The gas that Stevie and the rest get drugged with is 3-Quinuclidinyl benzilate, or BZ. The military ran some experiments with it in the 1960's. Interestingly, it would effect everyone differently, causing hallucinations, paranoia, aggression and delirium. In the end, it was deemed too unpredictable for combat use, but man is it great for a writer.

**Next week - an explosion, a message, and an unexpected kiss. Stay tuned!**


	15. Chapter 15

**Well, it finally happened - I caught up with myself. Confession time - I am a very slow writer. I wrote the first ten chapters before I even started posting and now I'm only working on Chapter 16. I will try my best to update every two weeks from here on in - but I'd rather take a bit longer and give y'all a good chapter.**

* * *

Chapter 15 - December 3, Magny-Danigon

* * *

Emerging from the tunnels was like being reborn; Stevie had never been happier to see the sky. The sun was setting, filling the snowy forest with golden light - they had spent less time underground than she had thought, for all it had felt like an eternity. Stevie stopped just long enough to place the last mine just inside the main entrance, and then she, Bucky and Jones stumbled and slid down the side of the mountain, Dernier still unconscious on Stevie's shoulder. They ran, half-expecting pursuit, putting as much space as possible between themselves and the caves, the shadows, and the nightmares that the poison gas had awakened. At the base of the mountain, Stevie pulled the detonator from her jacket pocket.

"Goodbye, mine," she said softly, and pressed the button.

The hillside jumped underneath them, almost throwing them to the ground. There was an incredible roar - trees fell, their roots coming free with an immense tearing and cracking; rocks and dirt cascaded down in myriad small avalanches. Any guards left inside wouldn't be coming out alive - and none of that gas would get out either.

* * *

By the time they reached the rendezvous point, a clearing deep in the woods, adrenaline and exertion had mitigated the effects of the poison. Stevie's head was pounding and her mouth tasted like an old sock, but at least the forest wasn't lurching and the shadows were only shadows, not spiders and toothed birds.

"There she is!"

The other half of the Howling Commandos had obviously been successful in their mission - the clearing was full of escaped prisoners. They had noticed her coming out of the trees - excited murmurs of "Captain America!" were traveling through the crowd. Within moments, Stevie was surrounded, people shaking her hand, pounding her on the back. She felt a little dazed.

"And where were you?" Peggy demanded, pushing through the crowd. "We thought we'd have to leave without you."

"Got a bit hung up," Stevie said. "Sorry to worry you."

"I wasn't worried," Peggy said, unconvincingly. "I was...peeved. We have a schedule to keep, you know."

"It won't happen again."

Corporal Morita ran to Stevie and helped her lower Dernier to the ground, checking his pulse, his pupils.

"What happened?" The medic asked, dark, almond-shaped eyes full of concern.

"We got gassed," Stevie said. "Everyone started acting...weird. I had to knock him out."

"Gassed?" Morita said, exchanging a significant look with Peggy.

"What?" Stevie asked. "Do you know something?"

"They were testing a chemical weapon on the prisoners," Peggy said. "A kind of gas. It causes hallucinations, aggression, paranoia…"

"Well, we all got a snootful," Stevie said, sitting wearily on a stump. "Will he be alright?"

"Heart rate and breathing seem normal," Morita said. "For anything else, we'll have to wait till he wakes up." He stood and checked her eyes, his flashlight beam stabbing into her already aching head. "How do you feel?"

"Like I have a hangover, and I didn't even get drunk," she laughed it off. "I'm fine, check Bucky and Jones."

Morita took one look at Bucky and left him alone, directing his attention to the more cooperative Jones. Probably a good idea, Stevie thought, given how Bucky had reacted at Kreichsberg.

One of the prisoners had made his way through the crowd while Stevie was talking to Morita, and now he stood in front of her - haggard and hollow-cheeked, with a blanket clutched around his shoulders.

"Hello," Stevie said. He stared at her, his hands shaking.

"Hey, man," Morita said, leaving his examination of Jones. "Why don't you sit down, you look…"

"Fraulein...Rodgers," the man choked out, an expression of terror in his face.

Another prisoner stood and staggered towards her. "Fraulein Rodgers." A third. A fourth.

"What in God's name?" Peggy said. Bucky and Jones stood and closed ranks beside Stevie.

"A message," the prisoners said, just a bit off from unison. "From the Red Skull."

Stevie felt like a cold wind had blown through her. The clearing was silent, everyone still and motionless except for the four prisoners, trembling and terrified, who spoke as if words were being dragged from them with hooks.

"The Red Skull says, enjoy your victory while you can. It will turn to ashes in your mouth. I will make you wade in blood to reach me. How much are you willing to sacrifice?"

Message delivered, the four men began to shudder and claw at their faces - one snatched someone's sidearm and tried to turn it on himself. Altogether, it took twelve men to restrain them.

* * *

They walked through the night to the Swiss border, and - relative - safety. There were seventy-three escaped prisoners total, so Stevie split them into three groups, on different routes, to attract less attention. As the rising sun crested the mountains in front of them, they reunited at the safehouse - a remote Swiss chalet owned by none other than Howard Stark.

Despite the chalet's lavish size, it certainly wasn't intended to host eighty-one people. The escapees and Commandos were stuffed in like sardines, finding places on the floor of the large central sitting room. The four men who had delivered Red Skull's "message" had been settled in one of the bedrooms, with some of their fellow escapees looking after them, making sure they wouldn't try to hurt themselves again.

"What was that?" Stevie asked Morita quietly when he emerged from the room. The way the four men had acted...had shaken her more than she wanted to admit. "What did he do to them?"

Morita sighed and took off his cap, running a hand through his thick, black hair, making it stick up in all directions. He had been tending to escaped prisoners all the way in, and he probably wouldn't sleep until they were safely airlifted out tomorrow.

"From what I can gather, it was part of what Hydra was testing," he said. "They were using the gas to induce a state of delirium and panic. To break down the prisoners' willpower and make them into...puppets." His mouth twisted, like he wanted to spit on the floor. "Those evil sons of bitches."

"Will they be alright?"

"In time, probably," he looked sad, angry, and most of all, tired. "Are you still feeling okay?"

Stevie held up a hand before he could check her pulse or start shining lights in her pupils again.

"For the last time, I am _fine_," she said. "Why don't you take a break, have something to eat." She wagged her finger at him. "Don't make me order you."

Stark's agent had stocked the chalet with supplies in advance of their arrival - blankets, food, even chocolates and several magnums of champagne. Stark had even left a note, affixed to the pineapple in a basket of fruit:

_My dear friends,_

_Make yourselves at home! Don't worry, I've left strict instructions that you're not to be disturbed. See you soon._

_Howard_

Morita and Stevie's arrival in the sitting room was greeted with cheering, and Stevie soon found a tin mug of champagne pushed into her hand. A lively celebration was just beginning - everyone's weariness from the night-long walk vanishing in the sheer relief of being free. The escapees were just launching into a rousing rendition of "Kiss Me Goodnight, Sergeant Major," led, surprisingly, by the staid Lieutenant Falsworth, who had a lovely, rich baritone.

Jones and Dernier were sitting together on a couch that had been pushed to the wall to make space for everyone, each with a mug of cocoa and a thousand-yard stare. Dernier had regained consciousness about an hour into their journey and couldn't remember anything that had happened inside the mine, although he had been horrified and profusely apologetic when he heard what he had done, and was very glad all the gas had been destroyed.

"That stuff," Jones said with a shudder. "I hate to think what it would do to a unit. Thank God it's sealed under half a mountain."

"Amen to that." Stevie clinked her mug against his. "Couldn't have done it without you, soldier."

He grinned, a bit embarrassed.

"Why don't you two get some rest? There are about eight bedrooms in this place. You could sleep on a real feather bed."

"Yes, sir!" Jones said, gratefully.

"You've more than earned it." Stevie clapped Dernier on the back as he left. "_Bravo, mon vieux._"

Now, Dugan had joined in the fun, singing in a bellowing, bass voice - a rather obscene song about Hitler's...equipment. Stevie looked around for Bucky, laughing, then realized she couldn't see him anywhere.

After a brief search, she found him sitting on the front steps, looking out at the rising sun and snow-capped peaks. He had scrubbed the guard's blood from his face and hands, and Stevie was relieved it was gone - the gruesome reminder of her close call.

"Bit crowded in there, huh?" She sat next to him.

"I'll say." He had a bottle of brandy in one hand, and it looked like he'd finished about two-thirds of it.

"You're missing a great song. You should ask Dugan to sing it for you later."

Bucky snorted, then took a pull from the bottle and offered it to her. Stevie shook her head and pointed at her mug of champagne. They sat in silence. There was a cold breeze coming from the east, and the smell of woodsmoke from the chimney was pleasant and rustic. Stevie wanted to apologize. She'd been thinking about it the entire way back - if she had killed the sentry, they could have gotten in and out without being spotted. Her decision to spare the man could have gotten them all killed. She was about to open her mouth, but Bucky started talking first.

"I ran," he said, softly. He didn't look at her; he kept staring out at the sun-gilded pines. He took another drink and continued.

"They took us by surprise, the guards. Dropped a gas grenade right on top of us. We took cover and I was lining up a shot, and then…" He rubbed his face with his free hand. "I saw him. Zola. I know he couldn't have been there, but I saw him as clear as I'm seeing you."

He took a deep breath. Let it out. "So I left Jones there and bolted."

"You weren't yourself," Stevie said. Bucky didn't seem to hear her.

"It was like being there again. In...the lab. It all came back; I could see it all, hear it all - like living it again." His hands were shaking on the bottle, his voice was shaking. "I was so afraid...I couldn't…I..."

Bucky started to cry, hand over his face, as Stevie looked on in stunned silence. She had never seen him cry, not even when he broke his wrist in seventh grade.

"Buck…" She said, putting down her mug on the porch.

_Do something!_ She railed silently at herself. _Comfort him! _She patted his hand in what she hoped was a soothing way.

Bucky dropped his bottle, seized her shoulders and kissed her.

Stevie froze, eyes wide with shock. This was nothing like kissing Howard Stark - he had been deft, cautious, gentle. Bucky was desperate and fierce; he kissed her like he was trying to devour her, one hand buried in her hair, two-day stubble scratching her chin. She closed her eyes, losing herself for a moment in the intensity of his embrace. He tasted like brandy and cigarettes.

_No!_ This was wrong. Bucky wasn't just her friend, he was her subordinate. She put both hands on his chest and pushed him gently away. He stared at her, breathing hard, green eyes burning.

"Bucky," she said. "It's me." _Me, your friend_. He was drunk, and still coming down off whatever was in the gas, obviously, or he'd never have done something like this.

The fierce, hungry light went out of his eyes and he laughed.

"Sorry," he said. "Guess I've had too much."

He picked up the bottle. Most of the remaining liquor had spilled into the snow.

"Well. Looks like that won't be a problem anymore." He heaved himself to his feet. "Better hit the sack."

Stevie sat on the steps alone for a few minutes, her body buzzing, mind whirling with what had just happened.

_He was drunk,_ she told herself. _And eight hours ago, he was hallucinating._ He probably wouldn't even remember anything tomorrow. _Pull yourself together._ She fixed her hair before she went inside. Wouldn't want the men to get the wrong idea.

Inside, the party was proceeding enthusiastically, making Stevie wonder how much booze Stark kept in the place. She waved to everyone, getting another round of cheers, then retreated to the room she'd share with Peggy. Everyone else was either packed in five to a room or sleeping on the floor. Sometimes, being a woman had its perks.

Peggy was sitting on the bed, removing her boots. She sighed with pleasure as she wiggled her toes and rolled her ankles around.

"Sweet relief...what's eating you?" She asked, seeing Stevie's expression.

Not about to mention the kiss, Stevie told her about the guard instead.

"I feel like I made a terrible mistake."

"Don't be too hard on yourself," Peggy took down her hair and brushed it out. Even without makeup, she still looked elegant. "Didn't Von Moltke say that no battle plan survives first contact with the enemy?"

"I thought it was Napoleon."

"Regardless. Who's to say, if you killed the guard, that you wouldn't have gotten lost down there in the mine? Or the other guards wouldn't have found you anyway? Besides, it isn't wrong to be merciful. You're a soldier, not a killer."

Peggy lay back against the pillows and flung out her arms. "Ahh...A real mattress, at last! I was starting to get permanent dents in my back from all the rocks we've been sleeping on."

Stevie still sat on the edge of the bed, tapping her foot nervously.

"There's something else isn't there?" Peggy asked, eyes closed. "You're fidgeting."

"I kissed…" Stevie stopped short. It didn't seem right to tell her about Bucky...it was too intimate. Too personal.

"I kissed Howard Stark!" She blurted.

Peggy sat bolt upright. "You what?!"

* * *

**I promised you a kiss, and gave you kiss. ;-) Hope you liked it. **

**In personal news, I'm going to be presenting in a couple of panels for the Denver Public Library at Denver Comic Con! (Which is certainly contributing to my slow writing progress.) Anyone going to be in Denver on the 23rd and 24th? Send me a message and we can grab coffee or something.  
**

**Next up - a very special Christmas chapter.**


	16. Chapter 16

**Hello everyone! Thanks for your patience as I switch to a slower posting schedule. I will try to update every two weeks...which should be easier now that I'm done with my work for Denver Comic Con! Have I mentioned I'm going to Denver Comic Con? Because I am. Going to Denver Comic Con. **

**Also, I made some edits to the French in Chapter 14 thanks to comments from Aleera GiacoRavenne. Thanks for the help!**

**Warning: This chapter is 99.9% fluff.**

* * *

Chapter 16 - December 20, 1943 - Falsworth Manor, Devon

* * *

Falsworth Manor was like something out of a storybook - outside, all gray stone turrets and chimneys at the end of a long gravel drive; inside, a picture of comfortable opulence: Persian rugs and Chinese vases, richly upholstered couches and cozy fireplaces. Lieutenant Falsworth had lent the use of his family's manor to the Strategic Scientific Reserve as a base of operations - it was secluded, surrounded by acres of well-tended parkland; practically unoccupied, since both his sisters lived overseas; with good access to the coast and plenty of space for everyone to work and plan.

"So, do all you Brits have manors?" Bucky asked Peggy one morning, as they sat at the breakfast table. Stevie punched him in the arm.

"Ow! What was that for?"

"Don't be rude!"

"You probably won't believe it," Peggy replied, spooning jam onto a scone, "but my family's house is a drafty old pile compared to this. Montgomery is an earl, and my father is a mere baronet."

"Yeah, I'm not even gonna pretend I know what that means," Bucky said.

"If your father's a baronet, what does that make you?" Stevie asked. "A baronet-ess?"

"Well, since my father and I aren't exactly on speaking terms," she sighed. "It makes me absolutely nothing."

"Well, look who finally rolled out of bed."

Colonel Phillips stood in the doorway to the breakfast room, incongruously dainty white china coffee cup in his wrinkled paw of a hand.

"It's seven-thirty, sir." Stevie said.

"Exactly. What do you think this is, a vacation? We have a strategy session. Look alive!"

"Yes sir!"

* * *

The strategy session lasted all morning and into the afternoon. According to representatives of the Bad Eyes Brigade, Hydra had infiltrated Nazi operations in Belgium, redirecting shipments of arms and goods to their own bases. The Colonel, Stevie and The Howling Commandos had spent hours bent over a large map, using chess pieces and poker chips to represent enemy units, debating the best points of ambush - where and how to intercept and sabotage supply lines. They adjourned only as the evening sun began to fill the room with slanting shadows.

It was only about an hour or two before dinner, and Stevie was pacing the corridors aimlessly, keyed-up and restless, when she turned a corner and found a massive, carved door in front of her, set into a stone arch, incongruously large and weathered, its black iron handle shaped like a lion's head.

"Mysterious, isn't it?" Falsworth had slipped up on her noiselessly. "If this were a fairy story, there would be a magical kingdom behind that door."

Despite a day spent in the study, hunched over and squinting at cargo manifests, the Lieutenant was as polished as ever, back straight, mustache trimmed, black hair combed back, ascot tied and red beret tilted just so.

"And what _is_ behind the door, Lieutenant?" Stevie asked.

Falsworth replied with an enigmatic smile.

With a low creak, the door opened into a high-ceilinged room lined with bookshelves. Banks of narrow, arched windows filled the space with golden light. Carved heraldic beasts looked down from the roof beams - wyverns, griffins and stranger things.

"This room was built in the thirteenth century," Falsworth said in his soft voice. "It used to be a chapel on the old manor's grounds; it pre-exists the rest of the house."

Stevie gaped, wide-eyed with amazement. Everywhere she looked there was a new treasure - a tourney shield, black and yellow with three white birds; a pair of crossed battle axes; a suit of half-plate armor; and...

"Is that a cannon?"

"From the Spanish Armada, apparently. One of my ancestors sailed with Francis Drake, or, so goes the legend."

It squatted there in a slice of sunlight on a cart of wood and brass; heavy and black, pitted from where spots of rust had been scrubbed away. Stevie laid her hand on its rough surface, imagining the heaving deck of a Spanish galleon, the captain shouting orders to his gunners, the sulfurous stench of black powder.

"As a boy," Falsworth continued, "I would climb all over that cannon, pretending I was a privateer - no matter how much my father told me not to."

Normally, it would have been hard to imagine the reserved Lieutenant Falsworth as a playful child, but, Stevie thought she could see a shadow of the boy's mischievous grin.

"I don't blame you," she said.

There was a moment of companionable silence, and then Falsworth took a breath and squared his shoulders, as if steeling himself for something unpleasant.

"I have a confession to make, Captain," he said. His arms were behind his back, eyes front, not looking Stevie in the face.

"I have not been entirely honest with you, or with the team. I work for the Special Operations Executive. My membership in the 3rd Independent Parachute Brigade is a cover. My true mission has been to conduct espionage, sabotage and reconnaissance behind enemy lines. I…"

And here he faltered, for the first time. His eyes flickered to her, to the floor, back to a point on the wall behind her.

"I've been reporting on you, sir. To my superiors, in London."

Falsworth was...a spy?

"But," Stevie said. "We're allies. Why would they want you to...report on me?"

"Due to the nature of your...condition...MI6 viewed you as a potential threat to the Commonwealth."

_A threat? _Stevie had the sudden sense of dislocation, of seeing herself from the outside. If Dr. Erskine had been Russian, and project Rebirth made a Soviet super-soldier - wouldn't she have been afraid?

Falsworth spoke again, brow furrowed, soft voice full of conviction. "These are views that I do not share. I have asked to be released from my assignment and my superiors have agreed. If…" he paused for a moment. "If you wish to expel me from the team…"

"Don't be ridiculous, Lieutenant."

He looked right at her, for the first time, blue eyes large with surprise. "Captain…"

"You love your country and you want to protect it. How can I blame you for that?"

It was what she wanted to do herself - Ma Barnes, Sal and Doris, the beautiful wilderness she had watched from the train, every little corner deli in Brooklyn - she wanted to gather them all up and keep them in a box somewhere safe, untouched by fear and pain.

"Will you tell the...the others?" He said stiffly. If she did, it would never be the same. Would it disappear, that special combination, that camaraderie that made them so effective?

"I don't think there's a reason to," she said. "Do you, Lieutenant?"

Falsworth shook his head.

"Thank you, sir. Thank you for your trust in me. I won't let you down."

It seemed absurd for a man who was ten years older than her if he was a day to say that, but Stevie nodded seriously anyway.

"I know you won't," she replied. "Now...I heard a rumor that you're planning a Christmas party?"

Falsworth snapped back to his normal self like someone had flipped a switch - the slight smile, the air of a gracious host.

"Why yes...Actually, we were hoping to ask your help with decorations, if you don't mind. But you'll have to swear to absolute secrecy."

Stevie held up her right hand. "Scout's honor."

* * *

December 25, 1943

* * *

"What do you think?"

Stevie looked at herself in the mirror. The dress was a silky dark blue, with a full, knee-length skirt. Lieutenant Falsworth's servants must have made or altered it especially for her - from what, Stevie had no idea. She had trouble getting her hands on decent fabric back in Brooklyn. Her hair was growing out rapidly - already it was almost down to her shoulders, done up in pin curls and accented with a white silk flower. Behind her, Peggy had a figure-hugging, crimson dress that matched her lipstick and her nails. Her eyes were sultry and black-outlined.

"Well," said Stevie, turning from side to side, watching the skirt flare out around her knees. "It's not very...Captain-ly. Are you sure I can't wear my uniform?"

In the mirror, Peggy made a face.

"All right, all right." Stevie sat on the edge of the bed. "The shoes are too tight, though."

"You can kick them off when things really get going," Peggy said, sitting next to her and flopping backward,brown hair fanning out around her face.

"Peggy…" Stevie began. "A while ago you mentioned you and your father not being on 'speaking terms'..."

Peggy sighed. "He didn't agree with my choice of careers. Mother always goes along with him, so…" She trailed off and kicked her feet for a bit, giving Stevie time to feel embarrassed for prying.

"I have a younger brother, you know. Toddy - Theodore. He's in the Pacific Fleet. After the war is over, he'll get the title and the house, and I'll…" Peggy shrugged.

"Become a telephone operator in Newark, obviously," Stevie said.

Peggy smiled. "And have you given any thought to what you'll do after the war? When you go back home to beautiful Brooklyn?"

Stevie hadn't. War wasn't very romantic in real life. The last three months had been dirty, dangerous, cold and unpleasant. But all the same, she felt like she was living a dream. She was half afraid she'd wake up at the end of the war and be back to her old 90-pound self.

"No dreams of settling down with a certain someone?" Peggy asked.

"What? Howard?" Stevie said. "Can you see me throwing dinner parties? Besides, you're the one who told me he wasn't the 'settling down' type."

After Stevie's blurted confession, Peggy had given her a rather embarrassing set of carefully-worded cautions about Stark's reputation.

"Hmmm," Peggy raised an eyebrow. "About that, I've been thinking, and I've never seen him look so serious. Well, except when he's working on that flying car of his. He's on his best behavior around you."

"_That's_ his best behavior?"

"You know, he put the moves on me once," Peggy said. "In London, when we first met. I threw him in the Thames."

Stevie laughed.

"I'm not planning on 'settling down' with Howard Stark," She said. She lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling next to Peggy. "Maybe we could be telephone operators together."

"Two single girls, sharing a flat."

"Breaking hearts."

"Answering phones."

"What are we talking about!" Stevie said. "We're war heroes! We'll walk into whatever job we want and make them hire us!"

"That's the spirit," In the corridor, a gong sounded. Peggy stood up gracefully and smoothed her dress. "And now, it's time to go down to dinner. Shall we?" She offered Stevie her arm.

"But of course."

* * *

Christmas dinner 1942 had been a humble affair. There wasn't much sugar, butter or fruit for cakes and sweets, and Stevie, Bucky and Mrs. Barnes had pooled their meat ration for a week to buy a decent-sized chicken. Real trees were scarce, and they didn't have the money for an artificial one, so Stevie had wheedled a roll of paper from the butcher and painted a tree on it with watercolors, big enough to fill a wall.

Christmas dinner 1943 was very different. Everyone, from Colonel Phillips down to Howard Stark's perpetually frazzled assistants, ate at one long table, bedecked with holly and silver candlesticks. There were buttery roast potatoes and parsnips, a chestnut stuffing fragrant with thyme and sage. Everyone had a little tube of colored paper on their plate that Peggy called a "Christmas cracker" - when Stevie and Peggy pulled on the ends it popped apart, releasing a paper crown, a celluloid cowboy, and an extremely bad joke. Stevie made Bucky help with hers, and, after enough pleading, even got him to wear the crown for a bit.

Stevie felt like she was at the center of a warm bubble of light. The clinking of plates and silverware and the buzz of happy conversation washed all around her. She counted at least ten roast birds of different sizes - when she asked where they got them all, Falsworth said his gamekeepers had hunted them right there on the grounds. Apparently, the manor also grew its own fruit, and for dessert there were sweet, flaky pastries filled with homemade blackberry jam. When dinner wrapped up they dimmed the lights and brought in a huge steamed pudding wreathed in blue flames, to the surprise and delight of the American guests. Falsworth smiled like a proud father as they oohed and aahed - a man accustomed to solitude, happy to finally play host.

They adjourned to the Great Hall for drinks, only to be brought up short by the sight of the tree - a massive fir, perhaps fifteen feet high. It glittered with tinsel, blown-glass baubles, and strings and strings of fairy lights.

"You did this, didn't you?" Peggy said. "And never breathed a word."

Stevie had, in fact, helped Falsworth and the groundskeepers haul the tree in, even helped decorate it, balanced on a teetering ladder, as Falsworth called directions up to her.

"Falsworth swore me to secrecy," Stevie replied.

"Well, well, well…"

Stark sauntered over to them. Where all the men were in uniform, he wore his tuxedo - sleek and black as a raven's feathers, with his habitual red carnation boutonniere. He had been on the opposite side of the table all evening, and they hadn't had a chance to talk.

In their month at the manor, Stevie and Stark had taken a few walks, had a few lunches together. They were too busy for much else. He had talked about his childhood on the Lower East Side, playing stickball in the street with the neighborhood kids, his father who sold fruit, his mother who sewed shirts. He hadn't kissed her again, not since their date in the lab. That thought reminded Stevie of another kiss entirely, and she felt herself blushing.

"The band's playing my song." Stark gestured over towards the piano where Jones was happily ensconced. "Would you like to dance, Captain?"

"I can't dance." Stevie said quickly. Stark raised an eyebrow.

"You can't dance?" He asked. "You? Sergeant Dugan told me that at Kreichsberg he saw you leap into the air and kick two men in the face simultaneously. He was moved; there were tears in his eyes. And you can't _dance_?"

"Dancing has...rules," Stevie said. "There aren't any rules for kicking someone in the face."

"It's easy," Stark said, putting a hand lightly on her elbow. "I can teach you how."

"I don't want to stomp all over your nice shoes," Stevie said, stepping back and nudging Peggy forward. "Why don't you two show me how it's done?"

Peggy gave Stevie a quizzical look, but she let Stark escort her to an open space on the floor. Stevie took a flute of champagne from a servant with a tray and joined Falsworth, Morita and Dernier where they sat on overstuffed couches and chairs. The irony of the whole situation, Stevie thought as she sipped, bubbles tickling her nose, was that Bucky didn't remember anything about the kiss. So he got to go on like nothing had happened, while she was blushing and stammering. And he was the one who caused the problem in the first place!

_Where is Bucky anyway? _

Peggy and Stark were flinging each other around the floor - all energetic spins and kicks. As the music got faster, the dance became more dramatic, until Stark tossed Peggy into the air, caught her, and flipped her over his back without missing a beat. The spectators on the couch cheered.

"Wow," Stevie said. "Peggy sure can dance, can't she?"

"And she fights like a demon," Dernier said, in heavily accented English, raising his glass in her direction.

"I'm not surprised," Stevie murmured.

"Talking about me?" Stark said, flopping down heavily next to Stevie and taking her champagne glass.

"We were talking about your dance partner, actually," Stevie snatched the glass just as he raised it to his lips.

"Ah yes, the second most beautiful member of the Howling Commandos," Stark said, raising an eyebrow in Stevie's direction.

"Second?" Peggy said. "I'm hurt."

"I'm first, obviously," Jones said, pulling over a chair and sitting with chin resting on the back. "Don't take it too hard, Peg."

"Now that the gang's all here," Stark said. "There's something I've been wondering. How did you come up with the name 'Howling Commandos'? Sounds like there's a story behind that."

"Oh, there's a story," Jones said. "And it's all thanks to this fine gentleman, here." He pointed at Dugan, who was returning from a sideboard with a bottle of golden liquor. He took a long swig and sighed with pleasure.

"Ahh - that's the stuff. Prime Kentucky bourbon. Surprised a limey like you has any in stock, Union Jack," Dugan said, indicating Lieutenant Falsworth.

"Well, once you're done with it, I'm sure I won't," the Lieutenant responded. "And...Union Jack?"

"It's a nickname," Dugan replied, pointing at each of them in turn. "Union Jack, Giggling Gabe Jones, Frenchy…"

"Oh, big surprise there," Morita said.

"Quiet, Fresno."

"Fresno? That's the best you could come up with?"

"And…" Dugan doffed his bowler hat to Peggy. "The lovely...Miss...Union Jack."

Peggy laughed. "No."

"I don't get a nickname?" Stevie asked.

"You've already got one," Dugan said, and the Commandos added, in unison, "Captain America."

"Oh, right."

"So...the Howling Commandos?" Stark prompted.

"Right!" Dugan said, pausing to take another drink before he continued. "I was getting to that. So…"

"There we were, duking it out, fighting for our lives," Jones jumped in, leaving Dugan with his mouth open. "When we heard the most blood-curdling, horrific shrieking."

"I thought it was a banshee," Peggy added.

"I thought it was a stuck pig," Jones continued. "And then we saw it." He started to laugh. "A tank, bumping along…"

"With the good Sergeant's head sticking out of it, bellowing for all he was worth," Peggy said.

Dernier, his command of English apparently not enough to describe the event, waved his hand up and down to illustrate the progress of the tank, and, presumably, Sergeant Dugan's head.

"That bowler hat…" Jones said,and dissolved into laughter again.

"I was shooting the cannon," Dugan said defensively.

"Now imagine being in the cockpit with him," Falsworth said with a grimace. "I thought I'd be deafened for life."

"I really liked that cannon."

"I can't believe you never told me that," Stevie said.

"Yeah, well I wish you hadn't," Morita added. "I used to think the nickname was tough, strong...Now that I know it's based on that idiot it feels kind of stupid."

"Oh like you're so cool, just because you're from California…" Dugan snapped his fingers suddenly. "The California Kid!"

"No!"

* * *

The party proceeded well. Peggy played Christmas carols on the piano until Jones took his seat back to play some "real music." Stark made an excuse and disappeared somewhere. Peggy danced with the Colonel, who wore the gold paper crown from his Christmas cracker, askew on his graying head. Dugan pulled a protesting Stevie to her feet and led her in a lumbering two-step in which they both stepped on each other's feet equally. Bucky finally came in from wherever he'd been hiding, cheeks red from the cold, to see Falsworth dancing the foxtrot with Jim Morita, while Stevie and Dugan, laughing, tripped over each other as each one tried to lead.

"I leave for a second…" he muttered.

Stark picked that moment to make a grand entrance, ringing the dinner gong that he had somehow persuaded two footmen to haul down from the corridor.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he called out, handing the mallet to one of the footmen. "Your attention please!"

The music stopped, the dancers stopped. Stark looked smug and satisfied, as he usually did when he was the center of attention.

"Christmas is a time of fellowship and good cheer, and we thank Lieutenant Falsworth for his hospitality and the use of his wonderful home…"

"Get on with it!" Dugan shouted.

"But Christmas is also a time for gifts!" Stark continued, ignoring the interruption. "And, if you'll follow me, I have a gift for the men - and women - of the hour - the Howling Commandos!"

With shrugs and muttered questions, they followed Stark out the front door, to where a lumpy, cloaked shape sat on the gravel drive. Stark moved to stand behind it, as everyone else shivered because they hadn't brought out their coats.

"I said this gift was for all the Howling Commandos," Stark said. "But that wasn't entirely true. Really, it's for their fearless leader." He winked at Stevie. "Hope you like it, Captain."

"Wrap it up, Stark," the Colonel said. "I'm not getting any younger."

Stark threw back the sheet with a flourish. The motorcycle gleamed in the moonlight, and, in spite of themselves, the assembled Commandos made a collective murmur of surprise. It looked muscular, powerful, unlike any other motorcycle Stevie had ever seen. She stepped forward and touched the seat, almost surprised it didn't move under her hand like a living thing.

"Hello, handsome," Peggy said, behind her.

"The base is derived from…" Stark began.

"A Harley-Davidson WL," Stevie interrupted. You didn't grow up with Bucky - or with her father for that matter - without learning a thing or two about motorcycles.

"Good old American engineering," Dugan said, raising his bottle of bourbon.

"Of course, I've made a few...alterations," Stark continued, regaining control of the conversation.

"Gatling guns here, here, and here," he pointed. "This is a magnetic grappling hook, this dispenses caltrops...and this, I'm especially proud of. If you'd all stand back…"

He pressed a few controls in the handlebars and twin jets of orange flame shot from two barrels near the bike's headlight.

"Flamethrower," he said, as the Commandos clapped. Even Bucky looked grudgingly appreciative.

Stevie felt like she should say something. "Thank you, Howard. He's beautiful."

"He?" Stark asked.

"Of course," said Peggy, stepping around the bike, running her hand over the white star painted on the side. "Strong, handsome fellow that he is. I think he looks like a Valentino, what do you think, Captain?"

"Valentino?" Stevie shook her head. "No. He's definitely a Flynn."

"Of course, a dashing adventurer."

"Want to take...him...for a spin?" Howard asked.

What with Bucky and her father both working as mechanics, Stevie had been around motorcycles most of her life. She had pestered Bucky to teach her how to drive one, but she'd never been big enough, or strong enough, to ride by herself. Until now.

"Oh, yes," she said, kicking off her too-tight heels and throwing her leg over the bike, cold forgotten. With her bare heel, she stepped on the kickstarter and grinned as it roared to life.

"Ready to go?" She said. Howard took a step toward her, but she turned and held out her hand to Peggy. "Agent Carter?"

"Don't mind if I do!" Peggy hiked her skirt up and sat behind Stevie, arms around her waist. Stevie flipped up the kickstand with her foot, and, with a twist of the throttle, they peeled out down the drive, spitting gravel behind them, laughing as the cold wind stung their faces.

* * *

December 26 - Bucky

* * *

In the silence of the morning, Bucky's breath and the crunch of his boots on the snow were the only sounds. A nightmare had awakened him just before dawn. No hope of getting back to sleep, but walking the grounds always helped him calm down. He found a stone bench next to a dry fountain and sat, the steam of his breath mixing with the smoke from his cigarette. The cold of the bench soaked up into his thighs, and he tucked his hands into his sleeves to try to keep them warm. As the sky filled with pale, pre-dawn light, Bucky's thoughts circled back to the previous night.

* * *

_These days, crowds made him uneasy, so he'd slipped out after Christmas dinner. He'd been on the terrace, leaning against the stone rail when he'd heard the footsteps behind him._

"_Got a light?" Stark had asked, behind him. His hair was disheveled, his bow tie undone. _

"_Not for you," Bucky said, solitude ruined. He made to push past the other man, but Stark took his arm in a surprisingly strong grip._

"_Hold on a minute…"_

"_Get your hand off me, Stark, or you'll be hunting for your teeth."_

_Stark released him and held up with hands innocently._

"_I know you don't like me, Barnes…" Bucky snorted at the understatement. "But I'm here to give you some friendly advice."_

"_Oh, yeah? And what would that be?"_

_Stark's smile was gone. "Tell her."_

_Whatever Bucky had been expecting, it hadn't been that. "I don't know what you're talking about." _

"_Bullshit," Stark said. "That big brother act might fool everyone else, but it doesn't fool me. I'm telling you - man to man - tell the Captain how you feel. Because I'm not going to wait for you before I make my move."_

"_Make your move?" Bucky felt his jaw spasm. He took a step toward Stark, glared at him. To his credit, the man didn't back down. "If you hurt her, Stark, if you break her heart…"_

"_You'll break my legs, I know the drill," Stark said lightly. "There's no need for theatrics. I have no plans to break her heart."_

"_What, you're gonna bring her home?" Bucky said incredulously. "You gonna marry her?"_

"_Why not? You don't think she's worth it?"_

_Bucky went from hot anger to cold fury. The only thing that stopped him from hitting Stark right in his stupid face was the knowledge that Stevie would be disappointed. For his own part, Stark's grin had snapped back into place like a domino mask. _

"_Remember what I said. Merry Christmas, Barnes."_

* * *

He heard her, before he saw her - a pair of heavy boots tromping along the way he had come.

"I'm always following you around these days," Stevie said, brushing the light dusting of snow from the bench to sit next to him. Her nose and cheeks were red, her hair, much longer already than it had been, tied back in a stubby and hurried braid.

"Well, I've been following you all over Europe for over a month. It's only fair."

"Touché," she said.

"So." He said. "You with Stark, now?"

She bristled. "You spent the better part of eight years setting me up on blind dates that went precisely nowhere. And now that I'm actually having fun with somebody you're upset?"

"It's not you being with somebody, it's _him_," Bucky said. This was all going wrong. He shouldn't be arguing with his best friend the day after Christmas.

"Ok, so who can I be with?" Stevie said. "Who meets your standards? Falsworth? Dugan? Colonel Phillips? Who?"

_Me._ Bucky thought. _You could be with me_.

He almost said it out loud, but then he remembered. He had already told her how he felt in the clearest way he knew, and she had let him down easy. How ironic - notorious ladies' man Bucky Barnes getting turned down by someone the girls in school had called "The Dateless Wonder." At that moment Bucky realized, bitterly, that he was a coward. He didn't want Stevie to reject him again, to tell him to his face that she preferred Howard Stark. He'd rather keep pretending that everything was still the same, the way he had done after that botched proposal on the landing, the day of her father's funeral. So he just stared at the fountain, a merman with snow in his hair, blowing a trumpet that made no sound.

"So," Stevie said, after a few seconds of less-than-comfortable silence. "There was a reason I followed you. Besides arguing with you, as much as I enjoy that."

She pulled a thick manila envelope out of her jacket and handed it to him. Bucky tore it open and tipped out the contents - bright, four-color comic books.

"_Marvel Mystery_, _All Winners_..._Action Comics #64_!" He laughed, a genuine laugh, the first in what felt like months.

"That one is Superman vs Toyman," Stevie added. "You've been missing issues since you left...I got in touch with some people, sent some telegrams, pulled some strings..." She shrugged and trailed off.

"That's incredible...Wait...some clown wrote on this one…" Bucky looked closer. Someone had written on the advertisement on the back cover in pen, who…? Then he noticed what it said.

_Dear James,_

_I won't say you were my best student, but you were certainly one of the most memorable. You were always a brave boy, and you've grown up into a fine young man. We all wish you the best. _

_Mrs. Jenkins_

There were notes on all of the comics - written on top of ads and in the margins of letters to the editor. Notes from old school friends, teachers - even a terse "_Give 'em hell, Barnes"_ from Johnny Shotsman, of all people, who he had beat up more times than anyone else. He read them all. The last one was from his mother.

"Sorry I didn't get a chance to give them to you yesterday," Stevie said.

"No, it's great," Bucky cleared his throat and slid the comics back into the envelope, setting it carefully on the stone bench beside him. "I have something for you, too."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, white stone.

"A rock," Stevie said. "Thanks?"

"That isn't just any rock," Bucky said. "That's from an actual temple, from the Valley of the Temples, in Sicily."

He'd had a little time, after the initial push, when the fighting had calmed down. He knew Stevie would never have forgiven him for being within arm's reach of real Greek temples without seeing them - so he'd paid a local in chocolate and cigarettes to take him to the Valley of the Temples, which had turned out to be a steep ridge and not a valley at all. After he skinned his knees a few times scrambling up the slopes, Bucky had been almost disappointed - many of the temples were just weathered columns and almost-unrecognizable statues. But there was one temple, standing on the very top of the mountain, still tall and proud and almost perfect. Even he could imagine what it must have looked like, 2,500 years ago, shining with the light of hundreds of torches. He had taken the rock from the base of a column, a loose corner of stone that he'd been able to break off in his hand, and he'd been carrying it around in his pocket ever since, planning to give it to Stevie when he came home. Before she came to get it herself.

"They told me it was the temple of Concord. Real Greeks built that temple. Romans went there. For all you know, Cicero spat on that rock you're holding." Stevie was staring at it, turning it over in her hands. It was just pitted limestone, but she handled it like a diamond. Bucky ran his hand through his hair, embarrassed. "It isn't much compared to a motorcycle…"

"It's perfect," Stevie said, beaming. "I love it."

She tucked it into her pocket, and then, before Bucky knew what was happening, she reached behind them, grabbed a handful of snow, and tipped it down the back of his coat.

"Ahh!" He leaped into the air, clawing at his back. Stevie was already sprinting off toward the house.

"You're dead, Rodgers!" He yelled, running after her, forgetting for a moment about Stark, about the kiss, the nightmares, about whatever mission they'd be going on next. If she thought she could beat him at a snowball fight, he was going to show her just how wrong she was.

* * *

**Thanks for reading! It's a bit of a break from all the action, I know - but I had some character work I wanted to get done, like giving Falsworth more personality, having the Howling Commandos bond a little. One thing I'm trying to avoid as well, in the Bucky/Stevie relationship, is the Chronic Misunderstanding Syndrome that plagues couples in romance novels - you know, where all their problems could be avoided by one, candid conversation. So here, I tried to present compelling reasons why they wouldn't just sit down and hash things out. You'll have to tell me how well I did.**

**I did a bunch of research on the traditional British Christmas. If you are British, please let me know how accurate I was.**

**Notes:**

Despite their association with the 50's and 60's (the stereotypical aluminum Christmas trees) artificial Christmas trees did exist well before the 1940's, and gained in popularity during the war due to a lack of manpower and transportation for the live-tree industry.

Falsworth Manor is based loosely on Orleigh Court.

What Bucky calls the Temple of Concord (Temple of Concordia/Temple of Harmonia) is one of the most well-preserved examples of ancient Greek architecture. It was built around 450 BC. For a time, it was actually re-purposed to serve as a Christian church, which, unfortunately, involved the destruction of a lot of statuary.

**Next time - The Howling Commandos go to Belgium, and it's time for: Motorcycle chases! More threats from the Red Skull! And an unusual train heist!**


	17. Chapter 17

**Hello everyone! I did it! I wrote a chapter in two weeks! Of course, it isn't the chapter I thought I was writing...Yes, I did it again. The chapter got longer and longer until it split in two, and all those things I said were coming up in this chapter won't happen until Chapter 18. I'm sorry! The characters made me do it!  
**

**Some pre-chapter notes:**

One of you was concerned that the "unusual train heist" that is still upcoming would be the Austrian train sequence in which Bucky meets destiny. It is NOT that train sequence. It's a different train scene. You'll like it; I promise.

Another commenter mentioned really liking a particular image from the previous chapter and wanting to "borrow" it. If anyone wants to borrow an image, a character backstory, a line, or whatever from this fic, please do! I'd be very flattered. Just give me a shout out somewhere. :-)

Comic Con was awesome. I met Colonel Tighe! He's really nice in person.

**Again, thanks for all the comments, follows and likes! They keep me going through times of writer's block.**

* * *

Chapter 17 - January 17, 1944 - Brussels, Belgium

* * *

Peggy had only recently learned of Falsworth's...extracurricular activities...but she had to admit the man was a master of his craft. As they walked down the Avenue Louise, his arm around her shoulders, he was the very image of a doting husband. He wore a long, double-breasted wool coat, a matching gray fedora. She wore dark fur, a diamond bracelet, a neat little hat pinned to her hair...and a six-inch foam-rubber cushion strapped around her waist.

Everyone else on the street was hurrying by with their collars turned up against the cold, not paying any attention to the well-to-do couple ducking into a small jewelry store, just a block or two from number 453, the Résidence Belvédère - Gestapo headquarters. A little bell chimed as they entered.

"Madame, monsieur, welcome." The shopkeeper was a trim woman in a blue dress, blonde hair artfully pinned back. "How can I assist you?"

"I'm looking for a gift for my wife," Falsworth said, as if he had spoken French all his life. He beamed down at Peggy, hand resting lightly on her back. Everything about him was different from the Falsworth she was used to. Instead of a straight-laced British lord, he was clearly nouveau riche - loose posture, broad smile and a very expensive watch.

"Ah, of course," the shopkeeper said. "If you don't mind me asking madame, how far along are you?"

"Seven and a half months," Peggy said, smiling shyly, hand on her padded belly. "It's our first."

"How wonderful." The other woman smiled back. "What sort of piece were you thinking of? Something for everyday? Perhaps something dramatic for the evening?"

"Oh, money is no object," Falsworth interjected. "My darling will have whatever she wants."

The shopkeeper didn't need more encouragement. She took Peggy right to the most expensive things in the store; matched sets of necklaces, bracelets, and earrings - sapphires, rubies, and gleaming, ice-white diamonds. She probably had trouble moving pieces like this in such turbulent times. Peggy almost felt sorry that they weren't actually going to buy anything.

"Oh!" Peggy cried out and clutched her stomach.

"Madame?"

"Darling!" Falsworth rushed to her side. "What's the matter? Is it…?"

"No, no," Peggy said. "Nothing as serious as that. The walk here was just a bit much. Is there somewhere I can sit down?"

The blonde shopkeeper ushered them solicitously into a cozy back room with a worn armchair and a small window that looked out on the alley behind the shop. Falsworth helped Peggy sit down, and she leaned back, breathing deeply. The other woman brought her a glass of water which she sipped as Falsworth rubbed her back, brow wrinkled with restrained worry. In the other room, the bell chimed.

"If you'll excuse me," the shopkeeper said.

"Of course."

After a moment, a gruff voice came from the shop. "I have some things to sell."

It was Dernier; that was their cue. Peggy nodded to Falsworth and set down the glass, and they leapt quietly into action, removing their coats, hats and shoes and stacking them neatly on the chair. Falsworth helped Peggy remove the cushion from around her waist, and took what looked like the pieces of an odd rifle from a pocket in the side. He slotted the gun together with a series of soft, metallic clicks, as Peggy removed the rest of the cushion's hidden contents - two pairs of rubber-soled mountaineering shoes, a stethoscope, a set of lockpicks in a leather pouch, and a tiny camera. Peggy slipped the tools into a special pocket in her dress, the shoes on her stocking-clad feet.

Falsworth had finished assembling the gun - it held what looked like a harpoon, connected to a reel of wire mounted on the side. The wire ended in a carabiner that Falsworth hooked to a harness around his chest.

"How do I look?" He asked, lacing up his rubber shoes.

"Not very fashionable, but needs must, I suppose."

He opened the window and leaned out, sighting along the barrel. When he pulled the trigger, it sounded like a champagne cork being popped, and the grapple embedded itself in the edge of the roof with a soft "thunk." Falsworth gave the line an experimental tug.

"Ready?" he asked.

"Oh, yes."

Peggy held tight to his waist as he pushed a stud on the side of the rifle stock, and with a loud whirr, they were yanked upward. The stone was ice-cold under her hands as Peggy scrambled up onto the roof, already thinking longingly of her fur-trimmed coat, neatly folded downstairs. She and Falsworth ran in a half-crouch, keeping the slope of the roof between themselves and the street, moving as fast as they could on stone and shingle made treacherous by new-fallen snow. Ahead of her, Falsworth leapt a four-foot gap between two buildings; Peggy followed. She soared smoothly over the alley, but as she landed, the wind caught her skirt, pulling her off-balance. For a heart-stopping second, she teetered on the edge of a five-story fall.

Peggy dropped to her hands and knees, catching herself on the gutter just as her feet slipped out from under her, one knee banging painfully into the stone. She hissed between her teeth. Falsworth half turned, but she waved at him to keep going. Dernier would only be able to give them a few minutes. There, that crenellated roof, that was number 448. The russet brick, that was 450, and there, finally, tan sandstone - number 453.

Falsworth hooked the grapple to the edge of the roof and, Peggy's arms around his neck, pressed another stud on the rifle stock to lower them slowly down to a small window tucked under the eaves. It opened as they approached, and they clambered inside, helped by a young woman with curled, dark hair.

They were in a storage room, the type that had to exist in any large organization - full of furniture no one needed and old cans of paint. Falsworth unclipped the grappling rifle from his chest, and Peggy hugged the woman, kissing her on both cheeks.

"Dear Helene," she said, in French. "How are you?"

The other woman shrugged; she was pretty, with a pert little nose and mouth that smiled easily, but she wasn't smiling now. "François is a double agent."

"Not François! Didn't he recruit you to the Resistance?"

Helene nodded. "It's going to be a tricky, keeping him off my back, along with everything else. But I'll manage." She peeked out the door, checking to the left and right. "Let's go."

The woman led them down a cramped service staircase to a richly carpeted corridor and the office of Constantin Canaris, the Commander of the Gestapo in Brussels. She moved to unlock the door and Peggy grabbed her wrist. As Helene looked on in confusion, Peggy knelt to pick the lock, making sure to leave some subtle scratches around the keyhole. That was essential.

The office was richly appointed - large, gleaming desk, oil paintings on the walls that had probably been looted from the _Musée Royale_. Helene carefully removed one of them and set it aside, revealing a steel safe with a combination lock. Peggy handed Falsworth her camera and lockpicks, and he got to work on the desk drawers, propping the rifle beside him. Peggy pulled the stethoscope from her pocket and planted the diaphragm just above the combination dial, where it stuck to the metal. _Good old Howard Stark_, Peggy thought. She shook out her hands, which tingled and prickled as they recovered from the cold. She'd need them to be steady. Helene stationed herself just inside the door.

Peggy took a deep breath, and let go of everything - the pain in her knee, her mental clock counting up how many minutes they had already spent, her ever-present fear of discovery. People said captured Resistance members were tortured in this very building, in the basements below the street. Maybe Constantin Canaris was interrogating some poor sod at this very moment. Deep breath. Let it go. Peggy began to work on the lock.

It was almost impossible to describe the process of safe-cracking - how you knew what was the right number and what wasn't. There was an almost imperceptible sound, more of a feeling really, when the circles clicked into place. But your mind had to be perfectly still and quiet, or you'd miss it. Peggy spun the dial slowly. _Click, click, click..._there. That was the first number. _Click, click..._the second. The third was trickier, she hovered between two numbers, 89 and 90, back and forth. A bead of sweat rolled down her brow, stung her eye. What was that noise? A footstep from the hall?

_Pull yourself together, Carter_, she thought. She had to choose - it was one of the two. Maybe she should just guess? _Wait..._the first two numbers had been 4 and 20...Peggy smiled to herself and turned the dial to 89, rewarded by a soft "clunk."

_The Fuhrer's birthday. How original, Herr Canaris. _

Peggy stowed the stethoscope and pulled the safe open. There were stacks of francs and reichsmarks; a small, black velvet bag full of diamonds - _Quite a rainy day fund,_ Peggy thought - and a book. _Jackpot._

She took it to Canaris' desk, where Falsworth was busy photographing the contents of several dossiers with a Stark-Minox camera smaller than Peggy's palm.

"Found the code book," she said.

"Well done, Carter," Falsworth replied, as Peggy held open the book so he could get a picture of the first few pages. "I don't think you were more than five minutes."

"You flatter me."

"Hssst!" Helene was waving to them from the door. "Someone's coming!"

Falsworth tossed the camera to Peggy and she stowed it away, along with the lockpicks. As Falsworth quickly slotted the files back into the drawer, Peggy replaced the code book - on the opposite side of the safe from where she got it. That was important.

Helene ran over to them. "It's too late!" She hissed. "He's right outside!"

Falsworth had the grappling gun, but there wouldn't be enough time to go out the window.

"I'm sorry, Helene," Peggy said.

Helene nodded. "Do it."

Peggy punched Helene in the jaw.

* * *

She barely had time to squeeze herself under the mahogany desk. Falsworth took up entirely too much room - and far too much of him was elbows. The door opened, and Peggy heard a heavy, boot-clad tread.

"Fraulein Schmidt!" A man's voice exclaimed in German. Rapid footsteps as he hastened to Helene's side. "What happened?"

There was a groan of pain. "Heard something…" Helene's voice was weak. "Door...unlocked. He hit me…"

"Who?"

"He had a mask...I tried to stop him, but…"

"It's alright, Fraulein, it's alright." Unsteady footsteps, as he helped Helene to a chair. "Did you see where he went?"

"No...but he can't be far...Oh!"

"Don't try to get up, just sit here. I'll send for a doctor."

"Are you..going after him?" Helene's voice was full of perfectly crafted worry. "Oh, be careful, Herr Canaris!"

"I'll be alright, just sit back, and try to relax."

The footsteps left, swift and forceful, and Peggy heard the man's voice shouting in the hallway for his subordinates. Helene's bruised face appeared around the side of the desk.

"It should be safe to go."

"Thank you, Helene," Peggy said, unfolding herself with a wince. "When he comes back, can you say that the man had a tattoo - something like an octopus?"

Helene raised an eyebrow, but nodded.

"You're a dear."

Falsworth had opened a window and set up his grappling gun, and with a pop, a whirr and a yank they were on the roof again. The trip back to the jewelry shop was less eventful that the trip over, thank heavens, and Peggy and Falsworth managed to get their coats and shoes back on before the shopkeeper returned.

"I am so sorry, Madame, monsieur - that man would not stop talking…" the neat, blonde woman looked at them, flushed and disheveled from the cold wind, and stopped short, blushing.

_She probably thinks we were... _Peggy looked down as if embarrassed, concealing a grin.

"Mademoiselle, I am so sorry," Falsworth said. "My wife needs to go home. We will come back again another day."

"I understand," the woman said, graciously. "I look forward to seeing you again."

Peggy let Falsworth "help" her out of the shop - it wasn't hard to pretend; her knee was beginning to throb where she had banged it on the roof.

"You mixed up Canaris' files I hope?" She murmured when they were safely on the street.

"I put a few back out of order. And I made sure to scratch the locks. All very subtle."

Constantin Canaris was not a stupid man - he was beginning to suspect the truth, that Hydra had insinuated themselves into Nazi operations. Hydra, who had attacked the German army at the Battle of Azzano, after Johann Schmidt, the Red Skull, had executed two members of Nazi High Command sent to bring him to heel. Already paranoid and distrustful, Canaris only needed a little push to begin a full-blown witch-hunt. A push that Peggy and Falsworth had just provided.

* * *

January 29th, 1944 - Brûly-de-Pesche, Belgium

* * *

The Hydra broadcast station sat in isolation among the pines outside Brûly-de-Pesche. Morita had driven the worst roads in Belgium, walked until his feet were a mass of blisters, slept rough in the snow, and listened to Dugan talk about his daughters until he could have recognized them on sight, although he kept envisioning them all wearing bowler hats. Now he almost felt disappointed that their goal was basically a concrete box with an antenna coming out of it.

"Alright," Morita murmured to Dugan as they crouched in what he thought might be a holly bush. "The relief crew isn't due for days."

"Hmmm," Dugan responded.

"Should be a team of four in there, but we have the advantage of surprise."

"Hmmm."

"So...kick down the door?"

Dugan grinned fiercely. "You're speaking my language, Jimbo."

The door was made of solid steel.

"Gonna be harder to kick in than I thought," Morita said. He was glad the station didn't have windows, so the Hydra agents wouldn't see them awkwardly hanging around.

"Looks like we'll need a little help from Mr. Nobel."

Dugan had pulled a brown-wrapped cylinder from a pocket, marked with a round seal and the words 'Nobel's Explosive No. 808.' It looked for all the world like a roll of nickels, but was, in fact, green putty that he applied around the lock.

"Do you smell almonds?" Morita asked.

"Yeah, it's the plastique. Weird huh?"

Dugan poked a pair of silver-tipped wires into the green lump, paying them out as he walked backwards around the corner of the building. Morita joined him.

"Now, I'm not Frenchy," Dugan said. "But that should add a little zip to our knock."

He plugged the wires into a detonator.

"Little pig, little pig, let me in." Dugan chuckled. "Might want to cover your ears."

Morita did not need to be told twice. Dugan pressed the button and a jet of yellow-orange flame shot from the door with a noise like a thunderclap. The bolts destroyed, he kicked the door open with ease, Morita right behind him, M3 at the ready.

They burst into what looked a soldiers' sitting room - camp chairs, folding tables, even overturned teacups. The men inside were stumbling, wide-eyed and dazed, away from the sudden explosion. One had fallen and was scrambling away, crab-wise, across the floor.

"All right!" Dugan roared, although Morita wondered if they could even hear him. His own ears were ringing after that blast.

"Everyone stay put and no one will get hurt!" He followed up in broken German. "_Sitz still...keine Schmerzen._"

The three Hydra agents raised their hands nervously.

_Wait..._Morita thought. _Three_..._Where's the fourth?_

He heard a door open on his left and turned in time to see the fourth man burst out in an ill-advised charge, boot knife in his hand. Morita cried out, and Dugan seized the back of the nearest chair and slammed it into the man's face.

"What did I just say?" He asked the man, who lay on the floor moaning weakly.

_Broken jaw,_ Morita thought, before he could help himself. _Concussion - possible skull fracture._

They secured the men to various pieces of furniture and went on into the broadcasting room. Banks of dials, headphones, a silver microphone, a Magnetophon - though small, the station was well-equipped. Dugan whistled softly.

"That's a lot of...dials."

"Not too different from my days at KXSC," Morita said, removing two rolls of magnetic tape from his rucksack and popping them into the Magnetophon.

"You were a DJ?" Dugan laughed. "You really are cool, aren't you, Slim?"

Morita checked the dials, turning them, changing the broadcast frequency. For this mission, it would have to be close to what German intelligence used. Just close enough so they could pick it up, just far enough that it would seem like an accident. He connected the Magnetophon, started the tape playing - a recording that Jones had made. Sometimes Morita felt like everyone could speak perfect German except him. Well, him, Dugan and the Captain. The message was encoded, just a string of numbers for Canaris' men to crack, but Morita knew the gist:

"_Mission successful. Canaris suspects. Permission to act."_

Now they just had to wait for it to play a few times. Make sure the right person heard it.

"So, Sonny Jim," Dugan began. "You got anyone special back home?"

Morita shrugged.

"Ah, come on! A young medical student...future doctor...radio DJ...gotta be some women interested in that."

"Well, there was one…"

"I knew it! Let me guess - sweet girl, very patient, keeps all your letters in a little box, tied with a ribbon..."

"She's in Manzanar," Morita said. Dugan stopped mid-flow. "Along with my parents, my brother, my sister-in-law and one-fifth of my graduating class. Ironic, huh? I'm here to liberate prisoners, and my family is locked up in a relocation camp."

He smiled bitterly to himself. "You know what my old man did? He owned a greenhouse. Grew snapdragons. Some threat to national security, huh?"

Dugan clapped him on the shoulder so hard he coughed.

"I'm sorry I said you'd stab Cap in the back. I didn't mean it." His voice was thick with emotion.

"That was ages ago." Morita said, feeling decidedly uncomfortable with this, emotional Dugan. The only things Dugan normally got choked up about were football and large weapons. "It's no big deal; forget I said anything."

"No." Dugan squeezed his shoulder with a paw-like hand. "It isn't fair, it isn't right, and when we get back to HQ I'll - "

The heartfelt assertion was interrupted suddenly by someone pounding at the door. Morita had locked it automatically when they entered, and now he was very grateful he had done so.

"I thought the relief crew wasn't due for days!" Dugan said, rummaging in his rucksack.

"They must be early!" This door was only padded wood. It wouldn't last long if someone really tried to get in. There were no windows. _We're trapped._ Morita readied his gun.

"What do you think, charge them when they breach the door?" He tried to keep the fear out of his voice. If this was how he'd go, he'd take as many of them along as he could.

"I like your style, Fresno," Dugan said, still crouched by his rucksack, putting something together it looked like. "But I think we should just use the back door."

"Back door?" Morita asked. "What back door?"

He turned to see Dugan raise a shoulder-mounted bazooka and aim it at the rear wall.

"Oh shit!"

He dove for cover, and the wall exploded in a shower of rubble and choking concrete dust.

"Woo-hoo!" Dugan pulled a slightly dazed Morita to his feet by his collar. "We'll have to be quick if we want to lose them. Look alive, Jimmy!"

* * *

February 26, 1944 - Cologne, Germany

* * *

_Quick and clean_, Bucky thought, sighting down the scope of his Springfield sniper rifle.

He lay face down on the roof of EL-DE Haus; a five-story, red stone building that served as Gestapo headquarters in Cologne; waiting for Constantin Canaris. It had been in the works for weeks, a meeting between the Brussels Gestapo chief and his boss, Heinrich Müller. As soon as Helene had gotten word to Peggy, Bucky had left Brussels and gotten a position as a janitor in EL-DE Haus. Going by "David Petersen," he wore his hair lank around his face and let his beard grow out. He slumped to disguise his height; he acted slow and pretended not to notice the insults and "good-natured" pranks the Gestapo thugs directed at him - and he snuck in his Springfield piece by piece in a leather toolbag. In the end, it had all come down to this moment on the roof, watching for Herr Canaris' car.

A light, stinging snow began to fall, flakes melting on Bucky's black leather driving gloves. _Good_, he thought. It would help him judge the wind.

Word was that Müller was calling his subordinate onto the carpet for his "paranoia" - operations in Belgium were at a standstill while he hunted for Hydra agents in his own ranks, arresting and interrogating his own men. It was whispered that Müller might even be planning to remove Canaris from his position - but if the man was gunned down on the doorstep of the Gestapo's stronghold in Cologne, then it would be a different matter. Then all his crazy suspicions would be proven correct, and paranoia would spread through the German Gestapo like a virus, handicapping them and Hydra alike.

There, turning down Mahrenstraße, a black Opel Admiral. Bucky trained his scope on it, and saw Canaris' strong-jawed profile in the back seat, behind the driver. Bucky took a deep breath and let it out, releasing all emotion and thought. The car turned onto Elisenstraße, coming closer. He took another breath. Time was spreading out, each heartbeat farther from the one before. Another breath. Let it all out. There was a moment at the end of the exhalation, when everything - the snow, the car, Bucky - came together in a moment of perfect stillness. Calmly, smoothly, Bucky squeezed the trigger.

The rifle's kick was like a hard shove to Bucky's chest, and a moment later the shot pierced the front passenger side window to strike Canaris in the temple. There was a red spray of blood, and the driver lost control of the car, brakes squealing. Everything sped back up - Bucky came to a crouch, broke down his gun with practiced efficiency and stowed it in his toolbag. He hurried down the service stairs to the first floor janitor's closet - not the basement. That was where the cells were, and other people cleaned up after what happened down there. In the cramped closet, among leaning mops, and bottles of sharp-smelling cleaners, Bucky exchanged his gray coveralls and shapeless cap for the uniform of a junior officer, slicking his hair back under a shiny-brimmed black hat. A quick shave in the closet's little sink, a jaunty walk, and no one would recognize him as "David Petersen" - at least, not if he left quickly enough, while people were still disoriented.

Sirens were sounding outside the building. _Police, already?_ he thought. But they were too loud. _Not police. Air raid._ As if on cue, there was a distant explosion and the building shook around him.

_How funny would it be to succeed at my mission and then get squashed flat by an Allied bomb?_ He doubted that Stevie would see the humor in the situation.

Bucky transferred his rifle from the toolbag to a slim, black attaché case, the better to coordinate with his new disguise. Just as he straightened, the door to the closet opened and someone backed in, bumping Bucky into the sink.

"Move, you moron, it's an air raid." It was Anton Anders, a tall, blond, brutish _Obersturmführer_, with a reputation for beating confessions out of unfortunate prisoners.

"I didn't want to be packed in downstairs with the rest, but if I'd known I had to crowd in here with you… and what were you doing in here all by yourself anyway, playing a little game of 'five against one'?"

Anders chuckled at his own joke, then turned to see "David the idiot" transformed into a junior SS officer. For a moment, he stared in confusion. Then Bucky took hold of his collar and slammed him into the sink.

There was a crunch as the other man's nose hit the porcelain, and then Anders hurled himself backward, driving Bucky into the wall-mounted shelves behind them. One hit him in the small of the back, an explosion of pain. At that moment, another bomb went off, closer than before. The floor heaved under Bucky's feet; the shelf above him came loose from its brackets and fell, dumping bottles and brushes on top of him.

Anders pulled free and whirled around, fumbling for his Luger. Bucky grabbed the first thing that came to hand, a heavy wire brush, and brought it down hard on Anders' wrist like a club. There was a crack, and he cried out, dropping his gun.

_Finish it,_ Bucky thought.

He aimed a backhanded blow at the other man's head, but as he swung, his foot came down on a fallen bottle and he crashed to the floor. Anders, not one to waste an opportunity, kicked him savagely in the ribs - once, twice. When he came in for a third kick, Bucky seized his foot and twisted.

As he fell, Anders' knee connected with Bucky's jaw, and his mouth filled with the coppery taste of blood. Then Anders was on him, one huge hand around his throat, cursing. Bucky choked; he clawed at the man's arms, thrashed and kicked - but even down one hand, Anders was implacable, squeezing tighter and tighter, blood from his broken nose turning the lower half of his face into a red mask. Bucky's heart was pounding in his ears, his vision narrowing to a gray tunnel.

_No._

Something welled up inside him - something born in the lab in Kreichsberg - something made of pure, animal panic and rage. Bucky stopped struggling. In one smooth motion, he drew his boot knife and drove it into his attacker's eye.

The pressure around Bucky's throat eased and he gasped, Anders now a dead weight that he scrambled to heave off of him. The other man's remaining eye stared, blue and blank, as Bucky knelt to remove his dagger. For a moment it grated against bone, and Bucky thought he'd be sick, but he ruthlessly quashed the weakness.

The sight of himself in the mirror as he cleaned his knife almost made Bucky jump out of his skin. His jaw was already swelling, and he had a cut on his forehead that he hadn't noticed, even though it was bleeding into his eye. The building shook again and Bucky steadied himself against the sink.

_At least, in the middle of an air raid, no one will notice another beat-up, bleeding man._

He left through a service entrance he unlocked with his janitor's keys. The streets were in chaos - police trying to herd fleeing civilians to safety, planes roaring overhead, bombs screaming as they fell. It wasn't hard to escape notice.

By the time he reached the rendezvous point, Bucky could feel every injury that the excitement of the fight and escape had kept him from feeling - his jaw, the back of his head where it had hit the floor, his ribs. He groaned. He had three hours in the trunk of someone's car before he reached safety.

* * *

The driver was well-trained, despite his youth. He didn't ask Bucky anything, despite his battered condition and the irregularity of the assignment - as a rule, the Comet Line smuggled people _out_ of Belgium. When they arrived at the safehouse in Schaerbeek - a country house belonging to a nurse named Monique de Bissy, the young man hauled Bucky out of the car and held him up for a minute so he wouldn't collapse onto the drive before he regained feeling in his legs.

Bucky shuffled into the dark kitchen like an eighty-year-old man, every muscle tight, ribs throbbing with every breath. He wondered if he'd have the energy to clean himself up before collapsing on one of Mademoiselle de Bissy's spare beds.

At the kitchen table, a match flared.

"How'd it go?" It was Stevie. She wasn't supposed to know about this assignment. She wasn't even supposed to here; she was supposed to be out blowing up bridges with Dernier and Jones.

"Who squealed?" Bucky said, sitting stiffly in a wicker-bottomed chair. "Peggy or Falsworth?" His swollen mouth made the words slur together drunkenly.

"Nobody," Stevie said, lighting a paraffin lamp. "I guessed. All of you should have known better." When the golden lamplight revealed Bucky's face, she blanched.

"Gonna read me the riot act, Captain?"

"I was considering it," Stevie said. "But since you look like hell, we'll postpone it. Stay there."

She got up and clattered around in the bathroom for a bit, returning with iodine, gauze and a bowl of water that she set on the scarred table next to Bucky.

"Good Lord," she murmured. "Peggy told me it'd be quick and clean."

"It was," Bucky said. "This came later. You should see the other guy." He tried to grin, but his face hurt too much.

Stevie removed his cap to clean his forehead and Bucky grunted as it bumped the bruise on the back of his head.

"You have one hell of a goose egg back there," Stevie said.

"Yeah, I noticed."

She cleaned the cut on his forehead gently, left hand steadying his head. Bucky closed his eyes and let himself lean into her a little.

"You should have told me, Buck," she said, voice quiet but firm. "I'm not just a girl anymore - I'm a Marine. And I'm your commanding officer."

_Maybe we underestimated her,_ Bucky thought. They should have known she'd figure it out. Stevie had devised the initial strategy - setting Hydra and the Nazis against each other with a targeted misinformation campaign, crippling both forces with one stroke. They should have expected she'd see where the plan would lead in the end.

"We thought you wouldn't approve," Bucky said.

"I'm not naive." She had finished with his forehead and moved on to his jaw. "I read _The Prince_. This is a war. We have to do things we'd rather not do. I know that, Buck."

He opened his eyes. Stevie was rinsing the cloth, wringing it out. The water in her bowl had turned pink with his blood. Her eyes were older than Bucky had ever seen them - full of knowledge that he would have done anything to take away from her.

"You're used to looking out for me," she said, pouring iodine onto a pad of gauze. "But you don't have to anymore. Now it's my job to look out for you."

Bucky's heart gave a little lurch at her words. _But then what will _I _do?_ He thought.

"Who knows?" Stevie continued. "I might even be bulletproof. Not that I plan to test that," she added, seeing his expression.

"Of course I have to look out for you," Bucky said. "If you had the sense God gave sliced bread you wouldn't be here in the first place."

She made a face at him. "Sit still," she said, and dabbed at his cuts with the iodine. He hissed at the sting.

"Oh, don't be such a baby."

"Sorry, _sir_."

"And don't keep secrets from me anymore." She taped a bandage over his forehead.

"I won't," he lied. "I promise."

* * *

**Thanks for reading! Hope you liked it! I wanted some under-utilized characters to get a moment in the sun. Some historical notes about this chapter:**

Joining the Historic BAMF Club this week are Helene Moszkiewiez and Monique de Bissy.

Helene Moszkiewiez was a Belgian Jew who got a job in Gestapo headquarters with a bogus identity and used her position of trust to steal valuable information and save lives during the war. The man who recruited her did turn out to be a double agent, but she prevailed. After the war, she helped identify collaborators and bring them to justice. She wrote a book called "Inside the Gestapo."

Monique de Bissy was an agent of the Comet Line, a network who smuggled downed Allied airmen and others out of Belgium. She was arrested in March 1944, but, despite being tortured, she did not give up the names of her comrades. After being liberated in August 1944, she jumped right back into action, enlisting as a nurse in the French army.

Speaking of BAMF's, our favorite WW1 BAMF Henry Johnson was awarded a posthumous Medal of Honor on June 2nd. About damn time! Is this coincidence? Does it mean that President Obama reads this fic? You can't prove he doesn't!

**Next time - Stuff happens - hopefully the stuff I promised you would happen last time, but no guarantees.**


	18. Chapter 18

**Hello everyone! Hope you're having a great day, wherever and whoever you are. Thank you for reviewing, following, favoriting and just dropping by and reading. **

* * *

Chapter 18 - April 8, 1944 - East of Mechelen, Belgium

* * *

The rumble of the approaching caravan broke the silence of the spring morning. The Howling Commandos couldn't see it from their ambush point - concealed behind a small hill and a convenient bend in the road - but they knew what it contained: three cargo trucks full of energy cores for a Hydra weapons factory outside of Mechelen. The Howling Commandos were going to steal those trucks.

Stevie sat on her Harley, with Peggy behind her, pressed to her shield; Falsworth at the wheel of a jeep with the rest, waiting for her signal. The noise of the trucks grew closer, until it was a vibration they could feel coming up through the road. Stevie held up her hand. The men in the jeep nodded. She clenched her fist, and, with a roar of engines, kicked her motorcycle to life. Dugan gave a battle cry, Falsworth threw the jeep into gear, and the Howling Commandos smashed into the middle of the Hydra line.

The jeep slammed broadside into the central truck, trying to push it off the road, while Stevie pulled out in front of the caravan's rear escort, two guards on sleek, black, motorcycles. She twisted a knob, and caltrops spilled from a pair of panniers at the back of her bike. Too close to stop, one of the motorcycles hit the spikes at full speed and flipped end over end, flinging the rider like a ragdoll. Meanwhile, Peggy, ignoring everything else, carefully aimed over Stevie's shoulder and shot the driver of the rearmost truck.

The guard in the passenger's seat fought to regain control, swerving from one side of the road to the other, the driver slumped bonelessly against the door. Stevie brought the motorcycle up level with the weaving vehicle, and Peggy fired again, then leapt from the bike, pulling herself into the truck through the window.

_Now it's time to do my job, _Stevie thought. _And take care of those motorcycles._

Putting on a burst of speed, Stevie passed the jeep. Falsworth was holding it steady while Dugan laid down covering fire. Morita and Dernier were crouched to spring at the lead truck - Bucky and Jones already clinging to the footboard of the second. As Stevie passed, Bucky wrenched the door open and pulled the driver out by his collar. Stevie barely had the time to whisper a prayer for his safety before she had to attend to her own. Two more guards on motorcycles were circling back toward toward the trucks, perhaps hoping to bring their own guns to bear on the jeep.

"Ladies first," Stevie murmured, and let rip with her gatling guns, handlebars shuddering in her hands like a jackhammer. The bullets caught one guard in the side, knocking him off his bike. The other motorcycle veered to the side and looped around the trucks joining the remaining rear guard on Stevie's six as she sped down the road, long braid streaming behind her like a banner.

"Come and get me!" She called, over the noise of her engine. _Your boss would be so happy if you did._

Stevie risked a quick glance behind. _Yes._ The two Hydra motorcycles were following her. That would keep them off the men's backs. She veered sharply off the road, weaving between the trees in a nerve-wracking, high-speed slalom. The guards were gaining on her with a strange, high pitched whine - experimental engines? Stevie didn't have much time to wonder about it - safely away from the trucks and their potentially explosive cargo, the guards began shooting. Blue bolts of energy smashed the trees on either side of her, sending an explosion of splinters into her face.

Stevie shielded her eyes with one arm, barely keeping the bike under control. _This better work,_ she thought, as she pulled a trigger under her left handlebar.

A harpoon shot from the front of the bike, embedding itself in the trunk of the nearest tree and trailing what Stark had called an "ultra high tensile carbon filament." Stevie pulled hard to the left, cutting in front of the outriders and stringing the wire through the trees directly in their path. The lead rider caught the wire right in the neck, but the second rider was luckier. He flattened himself over his handlebars and wrenched his bike around, spraying dirt, to come after Stevie.

_Just one left._

Stevie released the wire, racing back towards the road - she could see the trucks in front of her, through the trees. The guard couldn't use his energy gun so close to the caravan, but he fired his pistol at Stevie's back, bullets pinging off her shield. An idea flashed through Stevie's mind - it could take out the guard, but she'd have to remove the shield. It'd be her shot against his.

_But I'm faster._

As they came up on the rearmost truck, Stevie unslung her shield and hurled it directly at the metal cargo doors, ducking as the shield passed over her, close enough to ruffle her hair. This time, the guard didn't dodge - he had been lining up one last shot, and the shield hit him square in the teeth.

* * *

Peggy drove the lead truck with Stevie in the passenger seat - hair tucked up under a guard's helmet, patriotic body armor hidden for the moment under a black jacket. The rest of the Howling Commandos were similarly dressed at the wheels of the other trucks, their more distinctive features hidden by Hydra-standard goggles and masks. The disguise wasn't perfect, but all it had to do was get them through the gates. Then they would storm the factory and rescue the prisoners, distributing them through the Comet Line to safety. Stevie imagined the moment when she'd take off her Hydra disguise, and they'd recognize her - the guards with horror, the prisoners with joy. The moment when all her preparation would pay off.

_Not long now._

But as soon as she saw the factory, Stevie felt her whole body tense - something was wrong.

"The gate is open," she said, a nameless dread rising in her. "Look, no guards."

"Shit," Peggy said, under her breath.

She brought the truck to a halt, and Stevie leapt out. The iron gates in the wall that surrounded the factory complex were wide open, an eerie hush hanging over the enclosure. The Howling Commandos formed up around her, all with the same question, unspoken, in their eyes. Was it a trap?

_If there's any chance the prisoners are here..._

Stevie nodded to the men and they followed her across the gravel drive to the main factory entrance, running in a crouch with their weapons ready, skin crawling, expecting to be shot any moment. Even with her enhanced eyes, Stevie couldn't see guards at any of the windows.

The factory's main door was open as well, just a crack.

Stevie brought the men up short.

_No tripwires. _She listened, straining her senses. _No movement._

There was something though, something - off. Something like a scent that prickled at the back of her throat. What was it? She signalled the others, and together, they burst through the door.

The smell hit her first - a stink of blood and rot - so strong inside the building that Stevie was surprised she hadn't recognized it before. And then she saw the bodies. There must have been over a hundred of them, limbs akimbo, lying where they had fallen. Peggy gave a strangled sob, and Jones vomited against the wall. Stevie's gun and shield slipped from fingers suddenly numb and cold.

_The guards cleared the place out,_ Stevie thought, strangely calm. _They loaded up everything they could. Then they lined up the prisoners, and they shot them. And left them here, for me to find._

In the middle of the floor was a small table, something on it covered in a sheet incongruously white among all the carnage. Stevie walked to it carefully, pulled the cloth away. It was a film projector. Removing the cloth must have tripped something, because it whirred to life, and the black-and-white image of Johann Schmidt, the Red Skull, appeared on the wall.

"Greetings, Fraulein Rodgers." He sat in a leather, high backed chair, his voice just a little off from the movement of his shriveled lips. "You and your little friends have been very busy. You have made quite a lot of trouble for me here in Belgium. Not very nice at all!" He wagged a finger.

At the sound of his voice, Stevie felt her blood turn to ice within her.

"So I have left you this message." The Red Skull gestured out, as if at the charnel house around them. "And this warning - if I hear that you are planning to attack any of my other bases, if I get the least suspicion, I will kill all the prisoners, and you can carry their corpses home. Let the masses celebrate you then."

At some point, Stevie had clenched her fists - her nails were biting into her palms.

"There is a way for you to stop this, however, Fraulein." The man leaned forward in his chair, his terrible visage triumphant. "Give yourself up to Hydra. Then no one else will have to die...not even your friends. Simply turn yourself over to - "

There was a bang, and Stevie whirled around. Bucky, pistol in hand, fired again and again into the square body of the projector, until his gun was empty and he kicked the table over. The projector sparked and fizzled on the floor.

"What do we do, Captain?" Dugan asked.

They were all looking at her, Stevie realized - looking _to _her for guidance, for direction. She wanted to scream, to howl, to weep, but she crushed the feeling down inside herself.

"We're going to bury them," she said. "Gather up their dog tags, any personal effects. Dernier," she switched to French. "How much TNT do you have?"

"Enough," he said.

Stevie's hands were sticky and her armored shirt was stained by the time they were done. She and the other Howling Commandos had laid out the bodies in rows, all one-hundred-sixty-two of them, arms crossed over their chests, eyes closed. All the while, Dernier had been setting charges around the perimeter of the room. When they got far enough away from the building, he handed Stevie the detonator, and waited.

_They expect me to say something_, she realized.

"Oh, God," she began, trying to remember fragments from her father's funeral. The Commandos took their hats off.

"We commend to you these men, who fought and died in the service of freedom and decency, and we vow," her voice caught for a moment. "We vow that they will not have died in vain. Grant them eternal rest."

"Amen," the Commandos muttered. Dernier and Bucky crossed themselves, and Stevie pressed the button, bringing the factory down - a monument and a tomb.

As they walked back to the trucks, the dead men's dog tags jingled in their pockets.

* * *

**There it is - the string of victories is broken. This week's chapter is a bit shorter than the last, but I felt this was a very natural endpoint and decided to stop for thematic and pacing reasons. Good news - this means Chapter 19 will be ready next Sunday and you'll finally read the story of that train heist I've been telling you about for the past, like, month now.**

**In personal news, I'm applying for a job, so send any prayers, good thoughts, positive energy and whatnot my way, please.**


	19. Chapter 19

**Hello everyone! The train heist finally arrives - I hope it was worth the wait. :-)**

**This is a short chapter, but with a lot of historical information, so there will be lots of notes below.**

**As always, a great, big, enormous thank you to everyone who has followed, read and/or reviewed. You are awesome, and deserve pie.**

* * *

Chapter 19 - April 9, 1944 - Orval Abbey, Belgium

* * *

The chapel was small, but high-ceilinged - tan sandstone that caught the golden evening light. Stevie sat in the back with her feet on the pew, knees pulled up. Her sketchbook was open, and the soft scratching of her pencil filled the otherwise silent space. For a while, Dernier had been in the chapel with her, praying his rosary in a soft whisper close to the tabernacle.

"Does it help?" she had asked him, as he left.

"A little."

She wasn't sure how long she had been there when Bucky came in, crossing himself briefly before he sat beside her, leaning over to see what she was drawing.

"So, how many have you gotten?" he asked.

"Forty eight," she said. Forty eight of the hundred-sixty-two. Before she had left the factory, before she blew it up to make a grave for them, she had looked each man in the face. So that she could do this. So that she could remember them.

Bucky nodded, and waited in silence a few more moments.

"You can cry, you know," he said. "I won't tell anyone."

"I'm not going to cry for them," she responded sharply. "I'm going to avenge them."

His green eyes were serious. "What do you need?" He asked. "What can I do?"

Stevie looked down at the faces in her book. "I...just talk to me. About something...anything that isn't...this."

"Well, as it happens," There was a rustling of paper as Bucky pulled something from his pocket. "I have some reading material I've been meaning to catch up on."

Stevie scooted around so they could sit back to back, and Bucky began to read _Action Comics #64_. He did all the voices, the sound effects, the descriptions, just like he had when they were kids. And if he heard Stevie sniffling from time to time, he didn't mention it.

* * *

April 14, 1944

* * *

Stevie slapped a copy of _De Vrijschutter_ down on a table in front of Lieutenant Falsworth, who paused with his morning cup of tea halfway to his mouth.

"Have you seen this?" She asked.

"Hm?"

She pointed at an article, written in Flemish "The monks in the printing room told me what it says. The Germans are sending Jews to camps in the East and killing them - hundreds of thousands, at least."

Falsworth set his cup down with a little clink.

"You were with intelligence," Stevie continued. "Did you know about this?"

"Yes." In Falsworth's dark eyes, there was something that might have been...shame? Regret? He looked out of one of the refectory's narrow windows at the ruins of the old chapel down the hill, stained gray with smoke.

Stevie nodded. "We'll have to talk to the Colonel immediately, plan an extraction - "

"Captain," Falsworth interrupted. "I know you hate being told that things are impossible…"

"Colonel Phillips told me the same thing before I went in to the rescue you Lieutenant," she said.

"True," he responded. "But this is different. This wouldn't be a few hundred soldiers walking a few hours to safety. You would have to get several thousand people, most in horrible physical condition, out of the middle of occupied Poland."

Stevie looked away. There had to be some way to save them. Something she could do.

"I'm sorry, Captain," Falsworth said, touching her hand softly. "There are some things even you can't fix."

"No," she said.

The despair that she had felt in the factory, that she had buried inside herself, hardened within her into a hot coal of anger. She reclaimed the newspaper, rolling it up into a tube.

"There's a way. We can save some of them." She tapped the newspaper briskly against the table. "Get the others, Lieutenant. Strategy session in five."

* * *

April 17, 1944 - Boortmeerbeek, Belgium

* * *

Once again, Stevie waited on her motorcycle. This time, it was Bucky on the seat behind her - he had absolutely refused to go along with the plan any other way, even when she had accused him of being insubordinate.

"You can take me along on the bike, or you can send me back to the Colonel in a sack," he had said.

She had been sorely tempted to take him up on that.

It was hard to see the track from where they were hidden behind a large yew hedge, but they could hear the train rumbling like distant thunder, and soon the glow of its lights cut through the night, silvering the leaves.

"Alright," she said. "You jump first. I jump second - "

"Get to the engineer, stop the train," he continued. "You only went over it forty-seven times."

His arms were wrapped around her waist, strong and solid.

"Well then, let's get on with it," she said.

The train rushed past them, the sound of it hitting them like a physical wall. It was all freight cars, Stevie saw. No passenger cars. They were stuffing people in there like...like cattle. Like cargo. She pulled out onto the gravel track that ran beside the tracks and opened the throttle, matching the train's speed. A guard on the footboard between two cars saw them and began to cry out, and Bucky leapt on him like a panther. A moment later, Stevie sprang from the bike herself, catching the edge of the car's roof and pulling herself up as the motorcycle spun out on the gravel below.

She ran in a half-crouch along the swaying train cars, smoke in her face, Bucky at her heels, jumping the gaps between cars with hardly a thought until they reached the locomotive and swung in through the windows. There was a guard on the footplate, but Stevie knocked him down with a brisk uppercut. In the fiendishly hot cab, two sooty men were looking at her with surprise.

"Stop this train," she said in French.

The engine driver burst into a wide grin beneath his grey mustache.

"_Oui, madam!"_

* * *

As the train was screeching to a halt, the Howling Commandos rushed out of hiding to engage the guards. Stevie and Bucky leapt to join them, Bucky picking off guards with his pistol, Stevie striking out with her shield at any who got close. It was over in less than a minute.

The engineers brought out crowbars to help the Commandos break open the cars - but Stevie didn't need them. She tore the bolts off with her hands, letting the other Commandos help the passengers out as she moved from car to car.

"_Courez!"_ She called to the prisoners as they staggered from the train, clinging to each other, staring at the Commandos with a mixture of wonder and fear. "_N'arrêtez pas! Courez!"_

The Commandos regrouped on a hill near the railway - all but Dernier and Jones, who were setting charges under the train cars. The prisoners were dispersing in all directions, going to ground like fleeing hares.

"Be honest with me, Lieutenant," Stevie asked. "How many of them will make it?"

"Of the six hundred odd here," Falsworth said. "Maybe half. Maybe less."

Stevie nodded.

"But they have a fighting chance," he continued. "And that's more than they had before."

"Well then, that'll have to do," Stevie said. "For now."

Dernier and Jones had finished and were coming up the slope, unrolling a wire behind them.

"All done, Captain!" Jones said, white teeth shining in a wide grin. Stevie was happy to see him smile again after the horrible day at the factory.

_I hope the war doesn't kill that smile._

"You know, I've been told that these days the Germans can repair a damaged rail line within hours," she said, raising an eyebrow at the two men.

"Hmm," Jones replied, as Dernier hooked the wire up to a detonator. "Is that so?" He elbowed Dernier lightly, and the older man, with a chuckle, pressed the button.

The train lifted off the rails, bucking and twisting like a massive serpent, before crashing back onto the twisted wreckage of the track. The prisoners, who had crouched in fright at the explosion, began to cheer.

"We'll just have to see how those bastards like that," Jones said.

"Alright, fellas," Stevie said. "Let's get out of here."

* * *

****Stevie never lets anything keep her down for long. **Like this chapter? Hate it? Want to correct my train terminology or French vocabulary? Let me know in a review! And now - historical notes time!**

This chapter is based on an incident called "The Attack on the 20th Convoy", in which a train bound for Auschwitz was stopped by three young members of the Belgian Resistance. In an insane act of derring-do, the students - armed with one pistol between them - used a red lantern to mimic a danger signal and stop the train. They then opened one car, freeing 17 prisoners. The three students were named Youra Livchitz, Jean Franklemon and Robert Maistriau. Youra was eventually captured and executed, but the other two survived the war. Welcome to the Historic BAMF's Club, gentlemen. Any time you feel like a situation is hopeless, remember that three boys went up against actual Nazis armed with one pistol and a lamp - and succeeded.

(The engine driver was also sympathetic to the cause, and even after the attack he drove the train as slowly as he could, enabling at least 200 more prisoners to jump from the cars - of whom about half were eventually recaptured.)

_De Vrijschutter_ was a real underground newspaper, though not published at Orval Abbey, and it really did report on Nazi death camps as early as 1942. In 1943, another newspaper, _Front de l'Indépendance,_ sent a correspondent to gather information about the camps - another Historic BAMF named Victor Martin. He went to Auschwitz as a "researcher" and saw the crematoria there before being arrested. He escaped and reported his findings to the Resistance.

So why didn't the Allies do anything about Auschwitz and the other camps? For the reasons Falsworth gave Stevie in this chapter. Sadly, liberating the camps just wasn't possible until the Allies actually took the surrounding area.

**Enough action - it's time for some fluff. Next chapter - Stevie learns to dance!**


	20. Chapter 20

**Hello everyone! Sorry for the wait - I had the Black Plague. Well, probably not that, but I did spend a week lying on the floor in misery, too sick to write. I am all better now, ready for the homestretch! That's right - we should only have about five to six chapters to go. And now - on to the fun!**

* * *

Chapter 20 - May 2, 1944 - Falsworth Manor, Devon

* * *

Howard Stark met her in the garden, sleek and smart in his black tuxedo, lapel graced with a slender, purple iris.

_Is that the same tuxedo?_ Stevie idly wondered. _Or does he have a closet full of them?_ It wouldn't surprise her.

"Welcome to the Rainbow Room," Stark said.

He ushered Stevie into a trellis-shaded gazebo, overhung with climbing wisteria. On a small table, a record slowly revolved on the phonograph, and a bottle of champagne gently sweated in an ice bucket. The evening breeze was cool, but the music was warm and smooth as wine.

"Is that Frank Sinatra?" Stevie asked.

"None other." Stark handed her a flute of champagne.

"But...he hasn't released any records."

"Maybe not for the hoi polloi," Stark said, with a mischievous grin. "But for his personal friends…"

"You know Frank Sinatra," Stevie said. "You've got to be kidding me."

Stark pointed at her accusingly. "I'm not the only one with a famous friend. I hear you've been pulling strings yourself."

"I don't know what you mean." Stevie sipped her champagne, bubbles tickling her nose.

"Well someone's made some calls to Senator Brandt and I know it isn't me."

"Oh, that."

An incensed Sergeant Dugan had come to her when they got back to the manor and told her about Corporal Morita's family. Soldiers were fighting for the safety of a country that imprisoned their families - it was a horrible betrayal. The fact that the American people had allowed it to happen made Stevie sick. A very angry long-distance call to Senator Brandt had followed, during which she managed to get a promise that he'd do "what he could" for the internees, Morita's family in particular.

"Don't tell Jim," she asked Stark. "Please? I don't want to embarrass him." _Or get his hopes up, if the Senator can't actually swing it._

Stark made a gesture as if to zip his mouth closed. "My lips are sealed. But in return…" He put down his glass next to the record player and held his hand out to Stevie. "May I have this dance?"

Stevie stood up and smoothed her skirt over her thighs. She was wearing her blue Christmas dress, the same too-tight shoes. For a moment, she hesitated, memories of a host of unsuccessful sock hops flashing through her mind before she mentally shook herself and took Stark's hand. He drew her in close. On the phonograph, Frank crooned - _Blue skies, smiling at me...Nothing but blue skies, do I see..._

"It's simple," Stark said. "Start with your right foot."

He stepped forward and she stepped back. "Slow, slow," he said, in time with the motion. "Now to the side. Quick, quick, slow." He smiled, looking into her eyes. "Now you just keep it going. Piece of cake."

Stark gently guided her in a circle around the table, one hand on her back, one holding her hand. Under his jacket, Stevie could feel the firm muscles of his shoulders and back. He smelled of bay rum and Brylcreem, and was just the slightest bit shorter than she was.

"Stark," she said, when she was certain her feet could follow the rhythm by themselves. "Tell me about the Rainbow Room. The real one."

As they danced, Stark's eyes had gone lazy, half-lidded, contented as a cat's. He leaned forward a little and murmured in her ear.

"The windows look out over Manhattan, which sparkles in the night like a million spilled diamonds. Under a crystal chandelier, the dance floor is bathed in colored lights, and as Frankie sings, the cream of New York society mingles with movie stars and foreign dignitaries."

Stark's voice was hypnotic; Stevie could almost see the glamorous women in diamonds, hear the clink of a hundred champagne flutes, the murmur of a thousand conversations.

"When we walk in, everyone turns to stare," Stark continued. "'Who's that girl?' they say. 'Could that magnificent creature really be the famous war hero, Captain America?'"

His eyes met hers, and she saw a depth of feeling that stunned her.

_He's in love with me._ The thought hit Stevie like a sucker punch. Was she in love with him? She wasn't sure. He tripped her up. He made her feel like they were playing a game and she didn't know all the rules. She stopped dead and let him run into her.

"Howard," she said.

"Yes?" She saw his pulse in his neck, like a bird's wing fluttering.

"Kiss me."

It was a skilled kiss - just the right combination of gentleness and passion, forcefulness and patience. But then, why did it feel like something was missing? Why was she thinking of a drunken kiss on the steps of the Swiss chalet - the prickle of stubble, a mouth that tasted like sorrow and cigarettes?

* * *

May 11, 1944

* * *

"Alright," Peggy said briskly, in what Stevie thought of as her 'schoolteacher voice.'

"When you're attacking you want to hit your opponent's vulnerable spots as quickly as possible. And they aren't necessarily the spots you'd think of first."

Peggy looked much as she had teaching hand-to-hand combat to the ladies at Camp Lejeune - drawstring trousers, loose cotton shirt, hair in a tight braid. Suddenly, she snapped into action like an unwinding spring.

"Side of the wrist. Forearm between the wrist and the elbow." As she named each location, she gave Stevie a sharp tap. "Side of the neck. The throat, just below the Adam's apple. The kidneys."

She danced back away, her speed impressive - for a normal human. "All with as much speed and force as you can muster, which, for you, shouldn't be a problem."

"True," Stevie said. "So…" She entered the ready position Peggy had shown her, one foot slightly back, arms raised. "Wrist, forearm, neck, throat, back."

She aimed jabs at each location, stopping just short of contact. Peggy would move to attack, to defend - Stevie's job was to keep aiming for the same spots. According to Peggy, she had to practice until it became automatic.

"You're using your fists," Peggy said. "Try to use more of an open-handed chop. With a proper chop, you can break a man's arm. Well," she smiled. "_I _can break a man's arm. _You_ could break someone's arm if you slapped them hard enough."

The boys were across the lawn from the two women, playing something resembling a combination of soccer, rugby, and American football, their happy shouts travelling on the spring breeze along with the scent of lilacs. Stevie was amazed at how quickly she could learn the moves Peggy was teaching her. Her body - which used to betray her at every opportunity - was suddenly her friend: eager to learn, eager to please, like a well-trained animal.

She had speed, power, reflexes...But would it be enough?

"What's next, teach?" She asked Peggy.

"The high heel defense," the other woman replied with a slight grin. Stevie raised a questioning eyebrow. "I learned it dealing with...overzealous suitors. And speaking of suitors..." Peggy paused delicately.

"I haven't decided," Stevie said. It had been a week, and she still wasn't sure what to do about Stark. Did it matter if he was in love and she wasn't? "I haven't had a lot of practice at...this."

"At love?" Peggy smiled as Stevie blushed. "Fine, I won't push you for details. Come on, let's get back on track. Grab me."

"I have a feeling that this will end badly," Stevie sighed, as she took hold of the smaller woman, pinning her arms to her sides.

"So," Peggy said. "Your assailant has you in his grip. A quick way to get out is to scrape your boot sole down his shin and smash his foot with your heel, like this."

"Ow!" Stevie cried out, more in shock than pain, as Peggy stomped on her instep. "You didn't pull that hit at all!"

"If I can do that to you, imagine what you can do to a normal person." Peggy cocked her head to one side. "But you're not planning to use my amazing techniques on normal people, are you?"

"Guilty as charged," Stevie said, raising her hands in acquiescence. "What gave me away?"

"Well, you've mopped the floor with everyone we've come across so far."

"Because I'm stronger than they are. And faster. But I'm not trained. If I went up against someone who shared my...abilities...they'd lay me out."

"Someone who shares your abilities?" Peggy frowned. "There's only one person I know who fits that bill."

A chill seemed to pass over the sun. The only man who could match Stevie's strength was Dr. Erskine's _other_ subject - Johann Schmidt. The Red Skull.

"So that's why you're so keen to take care of the Runestone and Leviathan. And Weapon X." Peggy crossed her arms over her chest. "The three projects closest to Schmidt's heart...You're hoping for a face-to-face meeting."

"Got me again." Stevie tried to keep her tone light. "I guess that's why you're the secret agent and I'm just a girl who punches things."

"Don't sell yourself short," Peggy replied. "You also drive a motorcycle very well."

The morning strategy session had revealed at least a dozen possible targets for the Howling Commandos, but the three Stevie had chosen for their next missions - a castle in the Danish Straits, a submarine in the North Sea, and a laboratory on a mountaintop in Czechoslovakia - were possibly the strangest of the bunch - and the most remote.

"I have to confess, it isn't just the possibility of socking that bastard on the jaw that attracts me," Stevie said, her jovial tone growing hard at the edges. "I'm sure you picked up on it. No rescue operations. No prison camps."

She looked into Peggy's dark eyes.

"I can't put the men through that again. I can't put _myself_ through that again."

Peggy laid a hand softly on Stevie's arm, and didn't speak for a long moment.

"You know, I've always wanted to see the Danish Straits," she finally said.

"We'll do the Runestone first, then," Stevie replied.

"Enough lollygagging." Peggy took Stevie's hand. "Time for thumb holds. Even the strongest opponent can't fight the thumb hold."

"Ow, ow, yes I can see that!"

"Dancing lessons, ladies?" Bucky drawled. He had sauntered over from the men's game, jacket off, hair disheveled, a patch of sweat sticking his t-shirt to his chest.

"Agent Carter is teaching me the fine art of fisticuffs," Stevie said.

Bucky put a hand to his chest, feigning indignation. "Didn't I teach you how to hold your own back in Brooklyn? Did you forget so soon?"

"You taught me how to throw a punch without hurting myself," Stevie responded. "Which was about all I was up to at the time."

"Managed to sucker punch Johnny Shotsman, though," Bucky chuckled. "I still remember the look on his face."

Peggy cleared her throat. "I was just about to show the Captain some throws…" She looked at her watch and did a convincing imitation of surprise. "But I've just remembered the Colonel asked to talk to me about something at half past. Sergeant Barnes, as a brawler of the first order, I'm sure you can take over from here."

Stevie looked at Peggy incredulously. There was no meeting; Peggy had the entire afternoon free, just like everyone else. This was a transparent ploy.

_What are you doing?_ Stevie mouthed at Peggy behind Bucky's back. She was answered by a bland, innocent smile.

"I'll leave her in your capable hands," Peggy said, waving cheerily, as she hustled back to the house.

"Well…" Bucky said after a pause that was just long enough to be awkward. "Throws."

"...Yeah."

"If I show you, you have to promise to be gentle," he said with a grin.

She returned his smile. "I promise not to damage your pretty face. Too much."

Bucky laughed, and the awkwardness was gone. He showed her how to throw someone who attacked her from the front. From behind. How to block a knife. How to disarm a sentry without making a sound. And, as she moved with him, Stevie was amazed by how - right - it felt. She was in a country she never thought she'd visit, doing a job she never thought she'd do...but being with Bucky made everything feel like home. She wanted to fight at his side forever.

_I'm in love with Bucky Barnes_. The realization was so stupefying that she didn't see the attack Bucky was directing at her until he punched her right in the stomach.

* * *

**Finally, Stevie makes some sort of decision! And there was much rejoicing. But it's still an uphill road for our star-crossed lovers, so don't worry.**

**Historical notes:**

If you want a soundtrack for the first part of this chapter, go to YouTube and look for "Blue Skies, Frank Sinatra."

Peggy's fighting tips come from the awesome 1942 combat manual "Get Tough!" by Captain W. E. Fairbairn - a Historic BAMF in his own right, who helped develop the FS Fighting Knife, a dagger beloved by commandos even to this day. Fairbairn wrote several other manuals on self-defence, including"Scientific Self-Defence" and "Shooting to Live." If you need to beat someone in a street fight, and have twelve dollars to spend in the Kindle store, "Get Tough!" is your absolute best bet.

**As always, your feedback is appreciated! Let me know what you think. Next chapter - In Czechoslovakia, an unexpected twist.**


	21. Chapter 21

**Thank you, thank you, thank you for the feedback you've been sending! I don't think I could persevere without your encouragement. :-)**

**Do you remember that job I was applying for a few chapters ago? Well, last week I had an interview. And that's the reason this chapter is a bit late. Remember kids, the key to a good interview is preparation. (Also, I turned 30...so...happy birthday to me.)  
**

**We've jumped ahead a bit, so you'll have to let me know how well I did at describing everything that happened between Chapter 20 and now.**

** Czechoslovakia is gonna be so fun, you guys! Let's get right to it!**

* * *

Chapter 21 - November 2, 1944 - Western Poland

* * *

Stevie dreamed.

In her dream, she chased the Red Skull through a crumbling castle, the Howling Commandos at her back. The walls were thick, solid stone, but she could still hear the ocean crashing, the wind screaming.

"He has the Tesseract!" Peggy cried.

The Tesseract was an artifact that Red Skull had pulled from a church medieval tomb in Norway - possibly magical, possibly alien. It looked like a fist-sized blue box, and it was the source of all the strange energy cores that powered Hydra's weapons. In the dream, Stevie knew the information wholly, implicitly, without remembering where she had learned it.

"We can't let him reach the Runestone!"

The passages wound down and down and down. Schmidt was always just ahead of her, a flash of red, a black overcoat, a half-heard laugh. And then they were underground in a massive cistern echoing with the sound of water, a forest of columns spreading out into darkness. Even in the dream, the water was icy. Schmidt stood waiting, the Tesseract held aloft in his black-gloved hand. It looked like a drawing made of light, not quite real, bathing the space in a swaying, blue radiance. Hydra had been using the Tesseract as little more than a glorified a battery, but here, inside the Runestone, that little box would have almost unimaginable power.

"Too late, Fraulein Rodgers" Schmidt said, smile wide and terrible. In the blue light, his face looked more than ever like the face of Death itself, and Stevie found herself baring her teeth at him, snarling in rage.

The Tesseract pulsed with light, and, on the pillars, silver runes glowed in answer. The castle shook to its foundations.

"Much too late," Schmidt repeated, and Stevie turned to find the men behind her frozen in postures of horror and agony. Turned to stone.

"Bucky!" She tried to move, but her own legs were hard and gray, the stone creeping up her waist, to her lungs. She couldn't breathe...

Then, suddenly, she was in the belly of a huge submarine, the steel walls creaking from the pressure of the water.

_No. Not here._

It was the _Leviathan_, Schmidt's experimental craft, deep under Arctic ice in the North Sea. Stevie's conscious mind remembered going there, remembered breaching the sub...and what she had found inside.

In the dream she was outside the engine room, a sickly green light flickering under the door. No matter how she struggled, Stevie couldn't stop herself from reaching out, taking the handle, turning it. She watched herself open the door.

_No. No!_

There was a smell, like brine and rotten fruit and burning rubber. A high-pitched hum that seemed to come from behind Stevie's own eyes. Something hovering in midair, like a flower made of glass shards, shifting and flickering, folding and unfolding. It hurt to look at - hurt her mind, more than her eyes. And there, on the floor all around her, not quite dead, but not quite alive - the crew...oh, God, the crew…

_No!_

Stevie woke up gasping, blankets tangled around her legs, heart pounding painfully in her chest. For a second she didn't remember where she was, and then it came back to her in a rush. She was in a Soviet encampment outside of Walbrzych, in the tent she shared with Peggy. Not inside the _Leviathan_. Not seeing how the submarine's alien weapon had mutated its crew.

_A dream. _Stevie put her head on her knees and shuddered. _Thank God._

It would be impossible to get back to sleep after that. Stevie dressed quietly, so as not to wake Peggy, and tiptoed out into the camp. It was so early the stars were still out - sharp and cold in the black void of the sky.

_It's the second of November,_ Stevie realized. One year exactly since the day she and Peggy had disobeyed orders and flown to Austria. A year that felt like a lifetime. In the past few months, the war had become larger - and infinitely stranger. Magic, mysticism...alien artifacts, for God's sake.

_When did I stop reading _Astounding Science Fiction _and start living it?_ Stevie thought. Maybe she had just spent the past year slowly taking leave of her senses.

It must be all the strangeness that was giving her nightmares - or maybe it was just frustration, plain and simple. The Howling Commandos had destroyed the Runestone, destroyed the _Leviathan_ \- but Schmidt had still eluded them, a step ahead of them at every turn.

_How? How does he know our moves before we make them? _In her darkest, most fearful moments, Stevie wondered if one of the Commandos, one of the men she picked, the men she trusted - could be a mole for Hydra.

_Well, if that isn't enough to give you nightmares..._

"What's a girl like you doing in a place like this?"

It was Bucky, in his navy wool jacket, hands in his pockets, customary cigarette dangling from his lips. The sight of him brought a smile to Stevie's face almost before she realized it, despite her unpleasant train of thought.

"Couldn't sleep," she said. "Thought I'd walk by the airfield. See if Raisa's awake. Walk with me?"

Bucky nodded, and they walked together in a companionable silence, boots crunching on the frost. Raisa was Stevie's pilot - one of the Russian bomber team who would be taking the Howling Commandos into Czechoslovakia. To the initial surprise of the Commandos, the pilots were all women.

"Although," Sergeant Dugan had admitted with a nod in Peggy's direction, "seeing our own ladies at work, this really shouldn't have come as a shock."

Experts at stealth, the squad were known as the Night Witches. They flew bombing raids against German positions under cover of darkness, flying suicidally low, cutting the engines on approach so they wouldn't be heard. Even slight, elfin Raisa - with her snub nose and freckled cheeks - had flown over seven hundred bombing missions, all without a parachute so her plane could carry as many bombs as possible. In the usual tense, interminable wait for everything to be in place so the mission could begin, Raisa had been teaching Stevie to fly her Polikarpov Po-2 biplane - not strictly allowed, but the other woman had a fine disregard for regulations when she found them inconvenient.

Before the war, the airfield had been a pasture where horses grazed, the grass now dead and brown where it wasn't hidden by early snow. Near the field was what Stevie thought of as the prison, for lack of a better word - a fenced-off square of ground where the Soviets kept the Germans they had captured. She stopped to look at it, at the men inside, hollow-eyed and shivering, huddled together for whatever meager warmth they could find.

Bucky must have seen her frowning.

"How'd the talk with the Polkovnik go?" He asked.

Stevie snorted. "He was polite. For someone who was basically telling me to go jump off a bridge."

Polkovnik Yakunin was the Russian equivalent of Colonel Phillips - a whipcord-thin man with close-cropped gray hair and eyes so light they were almost colorless. He had offered Stevie tea, and she had accepted so as not to be rude - but it meant she was holding a teacup and saucer awkwardly as she talked, unsure if she could put it down on his desk.

"_This isn't right, sir," She had said. "Prisoners left without food, without shelter in the snow. Some of them are hardly more than boys. They're dying out there."_

"_Good," the Polkovnik had replied._

"_What?"_

"_You didn't see what they did at Leningrad," he said, eyes cold and flat. "Those _свиней _starved an entire city - over one million people, including my sister, her husband, and their children. They've earned this. Worse than this."_

"_With respect, sir," she said. "How will starving thirty teenage boys make anything better?"_

"_With respect," the man had replied, baring his teeth in something that was not a smile. "You are an honored guest, and we are happy to fight alongside you against fascism. But you have no authority here, Captain Rodgers. And we will do with our prisoners as we see fit." _

"I can see Yakunin's point, though." Bucky shook his head. "One million people - Christ."

"This has to end soon, right?" Stevie asked. "I mean, it can't go on like this much longer."

"Well, if nothing else, we'll run out of people." He dropped his cigarette and ground it under his heel. "What a crazy world."

Stevie found herself looking at Bucky's mouth. He had a very nice mouth. If she kissed him right now, she knew just what it would feel like.

_God, Rodgers,_ she thought, blushing hotly. _You were just talking about people starving to death. Now is _not _the time._

So far, it had never been the right time. They were too tired. There were too many people around. She was covered in alien goo. She hadn't told Stark anything either. The Commandos had left for Denmark in the middle of the night, with the news the Schmidt was heading for the Runestone. She hadn't wanted to wake Howard at two in the morning just to tell him that she wasn't in love with him.

_Maybe I should just wait until the war is over_, she thought. _For both of them._

Was that cowardly?

_Yes._

Stevie was distracted from her self-recrimination by the sight of Raisa coming out of the Polkovnik's tent and stomping across the airfield angrily.

"Raisa!" Stevie waved, and the other woman looked up, eyes big and startled in her rounded face. For a second, Stevie thought Raisa looked...guilty. Then the moment passed, Raisa smiled and jogged over to meet her.

"You're up early," Stevie said. "Not getting called onto the carpet, I hope?"

There was that guilty look again. "No, no - just some last minute details about tonight's mission. And are you ready?"

"Hard to be ready when we know next to nothing," Bucky said.

Intel on Weapon X was remarkably slim. Besides the name of the program and the location of the lab all they had were rumors. It was a specialized computer that let Hydra predict the future. It was an earthquake generator that could level cities. It was a sound cannon that could kill men and stop bullets in midair. It was another piece of alien technology, like they had found on the _Leviathan_. Stevie devoutly hoped that last one was not the case.

"I'm ready to get out of this camp," Stevie said. "Anything's better than waiting."

Raisa nodded. She hated inactivity, Stevie knew, and had spent the past two weeks drinking enough for three men and flirting outrageously with every one of the Howling Commandos, including Peggy.

"Just a little more time to kill," Raisa said, rocking on her feet restlessly. "Speaking of time to kill, want to go up? You could work on your Immelmann turn."

"Love to!" Flying was even more exciting than driving the motorcycle. "Want to join us, Buck?"

"I prefer to keep my feet on the ground." Bucky turned his collar up and lit another cigarette. "I'm going to find some coffee. You girls have fun."

As he walked away, Raisa cocked her head to the side and smiled. "I love to watch that man leave."

Stevie nearly choked herself trying not to laugh.

* * *

The Tatra mountains of Czechoslovakia were steep and rugged - nearly impassable in areas. Certainly not a place you wanted to be flying through in almost complete darkness in what was basically a refitted crop duster made of doped canvas and wood. Weapon X was housed in a mountaintop fortress defended by large anti-aircraft guns. Raisa and the Night Witches would drop the Commandos downslope; from there they'd go in on foot.

The cockpit of the Polikarpov was open, the wind icy against Stevie's face. Raisa and the rest of the Night Witches stayed low to the ground - seeming to sense the mountains ahead more than see them.

"You must have eyes like an owl, Raisa," Stevie said, grateful for the helmet radio that let her talk to her pilot. "Even I can barely see all these peaks."

"Thank you, Captain!" Raisa said cheerfully. "You're not bad yourself - Hey, if you get tired of life on the ground, maybe you could be a Night Witch. Bring that pretty sergeant along - he can be your tail gunner."

Stevie laughed. "I'll keep it in mind."

Despite the noise of wind, the night was peaceful. Clouds streamed by underneath the plane, the wings tracing lines of vapor. Against the sliver of the waning moon, Stevie could see a V of migrating birds.

_Wait_.

"Those aren't birds," Stevie muttered. "Raisa!"

The night exploded.

"Fighters!" Raisa cursed loudly in Russian, pulling her plane into a sharp barrel roll. "Take the gun!"

Explosions bloomed all around them. Ground and sky inverted themselves, and Stevie's stomach dropped out from under her as Raisa dove and whirled, relying on her plane's superior maneuverability to keep her out of the enemy's sights. Stevie wrenched the gun around, trying to get a clean shot on one of the fighters. They were so fast - cutting through the bomber squad like hawks among pigeons.

_How did they know we were here?_

Stevie's speculation was cut short as the slim silhouette of a Messerschmidtt entered her vision, and she squeezed the trigger. The gun was bone-rattlingly loud, bright flashes blazing from the barrel with every shot. Above Stevie, the Messerschmidtt's wing burst into flame. The plane struggled, trailing smoke, then slammed into a mountain in a burst of yellow fire. In spite of herself, Stevie felt a savage thrill at the sight.

"Got him!"

Then the Polikarpov shuddered. Stevie turned in time to see a spray bullets tear through the plane's left side, one leaving a hole the size of a softball just inches from her thigh.

"дерьмо!" Raisa cursed. "They hit the engine!"

Flames were licking at the nose, acrid smoke billowing back into the cockpit. Raisa hauled on the stick, trying to regain control as the engine coughed and sputtered.

_She can do this_, Stevie thought. _She can pull into a glide. __She's flown without an engine before._

Then, with a crack, the wounded left wing gave way.

Immediately, the plane plunged into a descending spiral, all semblance of control lost, the sky and ground flashing past in a nightmarish kaleidoscope.

"Captain!" Raisa screamed. "Jump! Jump while you can!"

Raisa, who didn't have a parachute.

Stevie tore off her restraints and ripped out the partition between her and Raisa, splintered wood biting into her hands. She seized the smaller woman tightly around the waist and, pulling her free of her own seatbelt, leapt from the dying airplane.

For a terrifying moment, they tumbled unsupported through the sky, bullets flying all around them. Then Stevie pulled the ripcord and her chute unfolded, jerking them upward. But something was wrong - the ground was still coming up at them awfully fast. Stevie looked up at her parachute - somehow the lines had gotten snarled; it was only half open - not nearly enough for her and Raisa's combined weight. They were still going to hit the ground at bone-breaking speed.

The wind was screaming in Stevie's ears, a high keening wail, or maybe that was Raisa.

_Maybe, if I take the impact,_ Stevie thought in the corner of her mind that was still calm. _Maybe Raisa will survive._

With only moments remaining, Stevie curled herself around the smaller woman, trying to aim her own back at the ground, to shield the pilot as much as she could.

_I should have told Bucky,_ Stevie thought. _I should have said something..._

And then she hit the trees and everything went black.

* * *

**I told you it would be fun right? *evil laugh* Anyway, some notes:**

*The Night Witches are real - and they are amazing. Everything I said about them in the chapter is true. Welcome to the BAMF club, ladies.

*Sadly, the Siege of Leningrad was also real. The Nazi's intentionally closed off the city, causing AT LEAST one million deaths, perhaps closer to two million. This was completely intentional, motivated by the Nazi's racist ideology. History is hella depressing sometimes.

*Raisa is named after the title character in Carrie Vaughn's short story "Raisa Stepanova," about a female WW2 flying ace. The story appears in the _Dangerous Women _anthology. Great story, and a pretty great anthology, too.

**Next time - What is Weapon X? (I bet you have some ideas!)**


	22. Chapter 22

**Hello everyone! First off, sorry for the delay - I didn't mean to leave Stevie falling out of a plane for two months. I was out of town, my husband got sick, and to put the cherry on top, I had a crippling bout of depression. (My depression likes to hide out and then jump on me intermittently when I think I'm "cured.") Thank you for reading, favoriting, following, and reviewing. Especially when updates can be so infrequent. **

**Anyway - Weapon X awaits! I hope you'll be surprised and/or intrigued.**

**Note: I uploaded an earlier version of the chapter this afternoon, missing some edits. I think a paragraph was even out of place! So if you were confused earlier, please read this updated version!  
**

* * *

Chapter 22 - Some time in November - Somewhere in Czechoslovakia

* * *

Consciousness returned to Stevie in bits and pieces. Cold stinging her hands and face. The sensation of movement, of being dragged, heels scraping over packed earth. Pain across her back, like someone had beaten her with a mallet, something tugging at her shoulders, biting at her wrists. Voices, soft and low.

"_Just like she said. Margot will be insufferable for a week."_

"_Shut up, Stefan."_

German voices. Even through the fog and the pain, Stevie knew what that meant. Capture.

"_Or what? You aren't in charge. That gypsy bitch snaps and you jump like a trained dog."_

"_Trained dog? You'd lick the Doctor's boots if you thought it'd make him love you."_

"_Fuck you, Jewshit. I should burn out your fucking eyes."_

"_Try it, Polack. Dear Doctor would put you in the box for a year."_

"_I'm not afraid of the box."_

Her German had improved over the last year, but she still caught only one word in three. Something about a gypsy...and something about a doctor. Zola? The voices were strange, but the words blurred and faded into static before she could figure out why.

She must have blacked out, because she suddenly came to, the earth under her heels replaced by gritty stone, the air damp and clammy. _Underground? Some kind of cellar? _Stevie held onto awareness, wracking her memory. _I fell..._The sky had been full of fire, Raisa's scream in her ear like a howling wind. Had the pilot been captured? Was she injured? Dead? What of the rest of the Commandos, caught in the ambush, on their own planes? _Bucky_.

_Focus, Rodgers,_ Stevie reprimanded herself. _You have one job right now, and that's to find a way out of this mess._ If this "Doctor" was Zola, being at his mercy would be a fate worse than death.

Stevie slitted her eyes open as subtly as she could. Above her, a narrow arch of gray stone, shadows dancing in the yellow torchlight. She took advantage of a jostling bump to turn her head to the right, and saw a pair of worn, workmanlike boots. Small feet….Stevie remembered what she had found so strange about her captor's voices. They had been soft, and high. Not like men...like children.

A door opened with the squeal of an underused hinge.

"_Ah, boys. There you are. I was beginning to wonder where you'd got to." _

Stevie had never heard Doctor Arnim Zola speak, but she had a hard time imagining this strong, easy tone coming from the small, scared man she had seen in the factory in Kreichsberg.

_If I'm going to try something,_ she thought. _It has to be now. The only real advantage I have is surprise and that won't last…_

"_She's awake," _a girl's voice said.

Stevie exploded into action. Bracing herself against whatever was holding her wrists, she swept her legs into the figure to her right, knocking him off his feet with a surprised yelp. The tension on her wrists vanished immediately and she snapped to her feet, wrenching the muscles in her stomach. _Probably a busted rib or two._ But there was no time to stop. She whirled to face her second captor, raising her manacled hands to deliver a crushing blow - and froze.

It was a boy, almost cherubic with his blond hair and blue eyes - smooth cheeks still bearing a hint of soft roundness. In one hand he held a torch. _No, not a torch_. A handful of naked flame, hovering above his palm.

_What the - ?_

Something seized Stevie's wrists from behind and jerked her into the air. She twisted and kicked, looking up to see what was holding her, how she could break free. But the heavy iron manacles were held up by - nothing. She dangled in midair, with absolutely nothing to support her. The boy she had kicked off his feet stood below her, dark eyes fixed on her, one hand spread in front of him. He was tall, with hair as black as patent leather and the angular awkwardness of an early growth spurt.

"_Good recovery, Erik,"_ the man's voice said, as he walked out from behind Stevie.

It definitely wasn't Zola. This man looked casually athletic, strong-shouldered and straight-backed, with a square jaw and a defined nose, sandy hair slicked back. He wore no uniform, but a tan sweater and necktie like some young college professor.

"_Thank you, Doctor,"_ the dark haired boy, who must be Erik, said.

"_Stefan, you froze at the key moment. We will discuss this later."_

"_Yes, Doctor_," the blond boy said, hands clenched, voice trembling just a little.

"But we are being impolite to our guest. Come, let us speak English." The Doctor regarded Stevie and smiled graciously. His accent was excellent. "Captain Rodgers. I've been so looking forward to meeting you."

"I'm afraid I can't say the same," Stevie retorted. "I've never heard of you." Dangling in midair, at the mercy of a Hydra "doctor," all she had was her bravado. And, by God, she was going to use it. "Do you hang all your guests from the ceiling?"

The Doctor chuckled. "Pardon me, Captain. My name is Karl Ritter. I studied psychiatry at Freidrich Wilhelm University while your...hmm...would you call him your mentor or your creator? In any case, Dr. Erskine taught there when I was a student. His theories always fascinated me - to think one day I'd meet the product of those theories face to face."

As Ritter talked, Stevie assessed her surroundings. Dim, cylindrical room about twenty feet in diameter, one entrance in front of her, large trap door in the floor below. The two boys stood near the door, a thin girl in a blue wool dress behind them. That must have been the girl whose voice Stevie had heard earlier - the one who had known she was awake. Behind the children a figure lay in a heap.

_Raisa. _She moved as Stevie watched, ever so slightly. _She's alive._

Stevie's relief must have shown in her face, because Dr. Ritter glanced over his shoulder briefly before turning back to Stevie with a raised eyebrow.

"You see," the Doctor continued. "Erskine always believed that power came from the soul - as I do. 'It is the man,' he would always say...That is why that hack Zola will never be able to replicate his success. Serums and injections." Dr. Ritter made a moue of distaste. "True power resides within - in the mind. It only takes the correct tools to unlock it. The correct...stressors."

He gestured at the children standing uncomfortably behind him. "As you can see, I have already exceeded Erskine's success. I like to think of myself as the midwife of the new Reich - the true _übermenschen_."

"That's some big talk for a man who sends children to fight his battles for him."

The Doctor gave a little laugh, a warm, friendly chuckle that filled Stevie with potent unease.

"I've been wondering," he said pleasantly. "What would it take to unlock _your_ mind, Captain? Physically, you are a perfect specimen - with great strength of will, as well, to overcome so many obstacles." He walked towards Raisa in measured strides.

"I'd start with your men, of course. You feel a great deal of responsibility for them, don't you? Their Captain...their leader and protector who delivered them from death. You even risked yourself to save a pilot who couldn't have meant that much to you." He crouched beside the unconscious woman and put a gentle hand on her shoulder. Stevie struggled uselessly.

"Yes," he said, looking back at Stevie. "I think that's where we will begin."

Even though they were within arm's reach of the doctor, the children refused to look at him, Stefan staring at his boots while Erik kept his eyes locked on Stevie's manacles, outstretched hand trembling.

_Don't hurt her, don't hurt her, don't let him hurt her_, Stevie thought desperately. The girl in the blue dress suddenly turned to Doctor Ritter and whispered something in his ear.

"Is that so? Thank you, my dear." He stood and dusted off his hands on his trousers. "Margot has informed me that you've attracted attention at the very highest levels. Apparently the Red Skull himself will be en route tomorrow." He smiled apologetically. "So our conversation will have to wait. Erik?"

The boy made a sweeping gesture. The trap door under Stevie's feet opened with a thump, and whatever force was holding her up vanished. She plunged into darkness.

* * *

Stevie hit the floor hard, buckling at the knees and rolling onto her back, adding new bruises on top of the old. Her shoulders were on fire, numb arms tingling back to life. Raisa hit the ground moments later with a noise like a sack of old shoes.

"Raisa!"

Above them, the trapdoor closed, leaving the two women in absolute darkness. Stevie crawled to Raisa and checked her for injuries as best as she could. The other woman was breathing and had a pulse. Hard to check for a concussion in the dark, but at least her skull wasn't caved in.

"Are you alright?" No answer, except a slight echo of her own voice.

"Stevie? Is that you?"

"Bucky?"

There was the scraping noise of boots and knees on stone as they scrambled towards each other. Stevie's hands hit a scratchy wool sleeve, fumbled up to a stubbled cheek.

"Bucky!"

He pulled Stevie into a rough embrace, almost knocking her to the floor. Her manacles clanked against his chest and she breathed in his familiar, comforting scent. Sweat and smoke - and something underneath. Blood?

"Thank God," Bucky said, clinging to her like a drowning man. "Thank God!"

Stevie hissed as pain stabbed down her side.

"Are you alright?" Bucky asked, pulling back slightly.

"Fine," Stevie replied. "Just hit a few trees on the way out of the plane."

Bucky growled. "Don't you ever, _ever_, do that to me again. I thought you were _dead_." He touched her face, her lips. The gentleness of his hands belied the ferocity of his tone. "Do you have any idea what you happen to me if you died?"

"I'll keep that in mind." Stevie found herself suddenly breathless. "The next time I fall out of an airplane."

Bucky's hands, holding hers, were covered in tacky abrasions, knuckles scabbed, nails rough and cracked. As if he had been clawing at the walls, beating at them with his fists. _He must have been terrified,_ Stevie thought. _To be captured and caged by Hydra again._ And to Doctor Ritter he would be a tool - a "stressor" to apply to her mind.

_We have to get out of here._

She tried to reach out with her senses, scenting the air. It was even colder and clammier than the chamber above - the stones were damp, moisture seeping through the cracks. It smelled of rust, of mold, of disuse and neglect.

"What's the situation?" Stevie asked, trying to make her voice brisk, captainly. "How deep would you say we are?"

"Not sure," Bucky replied, matching her tone. "I did try climbing, jumping. Didn't get very far. Room's at least twenty paces across, chains set in the walls every so often. Tried to pull one out, but they're pretty firm. Maybe you could get somewhere..."

"It might not help," Stevie said. "There was a boy upstairs who could...move things...without touching them. Pulled me right up to the ceiling by my wrists."

_No, not by the wrists,_ Stevie thought. _By the chains..._

"A kid?" Bucky said, voice strange.

"What?"

"Just...after I saw you fall, I...jumped after you…"

"Not a wise move, sergeant."

Bucky kept talking as if she hadn't interrupted. "There was a kid. Popped out of a shadow I would've sworn was empty. Touched my arm and it felt like I'd been zapped by a live wire."

They sat in silence for a moment. _Kids with superpowers. _Stevie thought. _First the Runestone, then Leviathan, and now it's goddamn kids with superpowers.  
_

Somewhere in front of them, Raisa moaned, interrupting Stevie's train of thought. She edged carefully across the floor to help the other woman sit up.

"Are we alive?" Raisa asked hoarsely.

"Last time I checked," Stevie said, trying to be reassuring. "How are you?"

"My head hurts like a _мудак_," Raisa said. "Don't suppose either of you have any vodka on you?"

"They took it," Stevie replied wryly. "Along with my shield and sidearm."

"Your shield!" Raisa took Stevie's arm. "Captain, some _ребенок_ threw your shield at me, while I was trying to wake you up, after we landed. He threw it without touching it..."

"Pebenok?" Stevie asked. She didn't know much Russian, but this she had heard before. "You mean a kid?"

Stevie's mind was whirling. She remembered Doctor Ritter's proud gesture at the three children. _The new übermenschen_, he had called them. The girl, Margot, whispering to the Doctor. _The Red Skull will be en route tomorrow_. How had she known? How had the fighters known where the planes would be - how did the children know where she and Bucky would land?

"I think we found Weapon X," Stevie said.

Off to one side, there was the sound of door opening, a movement of air. The three captives leapt to their feet, only to draw back, shielding their eyes, as a lantern flared to life. In the warm light, Margot's pale face floated like a specter.

"Yes," she said, in answer to a question she could not have heard. "You have."

* * *

**Weapon X! It was hard to balance the exposition in this chapter, so let me know how well I did, or if anything confused you.**

**Next up: Escape from the evil fortress lab with a bunch of mutant kiddos.**


	23. Chapter 23

**Hello gentle readers! A little gift for the winter holiday of your choice - a new, and rather sizeable, chapter! This chapter was loosely inspired by Ian Tregellis' "Bitter Seeds," a great alternate WW2 story.**

* * *

Chapter 23 - November 3 - Western Poland

* * *

The canvas tent flapped in a chill wind - the harbinger of sunrise. The sky was just a shade lighter than black, but Peggy hadn't slept at all. Instead, she played the disastrous expedition over and over in her mind - the screams of German fighter planes diving out of the night, gunfire tearing the silence, and then a parachute, a white ghost in the darkness, plummeting toward the trees.

As soon as they landed in the frosted airfield, Peggy had snagged Dernier's arm and whispered in his ear in French.

"_Meet me in my tent as soon as you can shake the Russians. Tell the others."_

He had nodded and walked briskly away, murmuring the message to Jones in passing. The Russian pilot next to him didn't even turn around. That was when Peggy had realized that Bucky was missing.

Now, perched on her cot, its hard edge digging into her thighs, Peggy worried her lip in her teeth. The Commandos had lost their Captain and Sergeant Barnes in one stroke. Could she keep them all together? And what should they do next?

_And how did the Germans know we were coming?_

It couldn't be any of the Commandos. Peggy had trained herself to be suspicious, but she trusted the men more than her own family. It _couldn't_ be one of them.

"Knock, knock." It was Dugan, speaking in the loudest whisper Peggy had ever heard, probably his version of being stealthy.

"Come in, Sergeant. I'm decent."

Dugan crowded his bulk into Peggy's cramped tent, the rest of the Commandos filing in after him. It took an awkward minute or two to arrange everyone, perched on the few items of furniture or sitting on the floor.

"So." It was Morita who broke the silence from his seat on Peggy's foot locker. "How screwed are we?"

"Well," Peggy said. "I imagine that depends on a few factors…"

"Like whether Barnes and the Captain are dead."

"You bite your tongue, Corporal," Dugan said, quiet but emphatic. "They are _not _dead."

Morita rolled his eyes, as if they'd had this conversation more than once on the way over. "They jumped into a firefight. I'm just being realistic…"

"Realistic! You're being disloyal is what you're being!"

The tension that had filled the tent burst into a full-blown argument, and there were a few moments of unintelligible cacophony before Peggy put two fingers into her mouth and let out a piercing whistle. Instantly every eye was on her.

"Thank you, gentlemen," she said. _I have to give them something_. _Hope. Direction. _

Jones was sitting on the floor in an easy, cross-legged pose.

"Is it true?" He asked. "Are they dead?"

Dernier was holding his medal tightly in his right hand. Falsworth slouched carefully in one corner, watching everyone with an inscrutable expression.

"As if a little thing like falling out of a plane could kill our Captain," Peggy said.

"Do you envision a rescue?" Falsworth asked, eyebrow raised.

"Certainly," Peggy said. "But what we have to keep in mind is that, somehow, Hydra knew we were coming."

"You think," Dernier said in his thickly accented English, "some of these Soviets are _espions_?"

"It's possible," Peggy said. Dugan growled.

"So we have to arrange a rescue when anyone in a two-mile radius could be trying to kill us," Morita said.

"Sounds like business as usual to me," Jones quipped.

Peggy was opening her mouth to respond when she heard footsteps outside. She hurriedly shushed the others, and stood just as Polkovnik Yakunin himself lifted the tent flap.

"Ah! Here you all are together." The Polkovnik's mouth smiled, but his sharp eyes did not.

Peggy smoothed her face into its most innocent and nonchalant expression, and could only hope that the Commandos were doing the same thing.

"Polkovnik," she said. "We were just regrouping. We've had a terrible shock."

He raised one pale eyebrow. "Then allow me to be the bearer of good news," he said. "Your Captain is alive."

Peggy's careful facade cracked for a moment. "How…"

"We received an encrypted transmission moments ago. Using the Captain's private code and personal transponder. She has infiltrated the base and requests immediate bombardment."

_Immediate bombardment?_

"So you and the Night Witches will be heading out again, tonight."

"Pardon me, sir," Peggy said. "But what about the fighter planes that intercepted us last night? They'll cut us to ribbons."

The Polkovnik's pale eyes were unreadable. "Your Captain said they have been taken care of."

_Taken care of? A squadron, by herself? That would be a bit much, surely, even for her._

"We can't afford to lose this chance. The Night Witches leave within the hour - with or without you. We may still salvage this mess." The Polkovnik and his aides strode away through the camp. Peggy watched them go, brow furrowed.

"I don't like this at all," Morita said, as Peggy closed the flap.

"What _do_ you like, laughing boy?" Dugan responded.

"It is suspicious," Falsworth said. "Do you think someone could have...gotten the Captain to divulge her codes?"

Tortured her, he meant.

"She's too stubborn for that, don't you think?" Peggy said, keeping her fear out of her voice. She didn't like the situation herself. But what choice did they have? Was it a gamble worth taking?

"Let's put our trust in our Captain," she said. "I'll meet you on the airfield in an hour."

If she was wrong, well...at least they might still be able to arrange that rescue.

* * *

Margot was pale as a ghost in the light of her lamp. Now that Stevie's eyes had adjusted, she could see Erik lurking behind the girl like a hunched, black crow.

_So this is Weapon X. _Stevie thought. _Children turned into soldiers. _

She remembered Doctor Ritter's smug, proprietary attitude, the children's obvious fear of him - and felt a surge of anger and revulsion so strong she could almost taste it. She wanted to find the Doctor - more than find him; she wanted to hurt him. Stevie took a deep breath and hoped it would keep the tremor from her voice.

"You're Margot, right?" She asked the girl, gently. "And...Erik?"

Erik looked surprised, but Margot's eyes were black pools in the lamplight. Deep and fathomless.

"How did you…?" Erik started, before Margot interrupted him.

"Because she was paying attention, Erik. That's the kind of person she is." Margot turned her inscrutable expression on Stevie, and her companions behind her. "But there isn't time for introductions. Captain, we need your help."

"Well," Stevie said, carefully. She was aware of treading into a situation she didn't fully understand. It felt like walking into a lake, unable to see when the bottom would drop off beneath her. Bucky was silent and still - the stillness of a trap with a hair trigger, something that could explode at any moment.

"I like to know who I'm helping," she continued. "Especially when one of them knocked out my friend here," she gestured towards Raisa, manacles clanking. "And, for that matter, hung me from the ceiling by my wrists."

"I had to," said Erik, with a scowl. "I didn't mean…" His expression turned to something else. Embarrassment. Shame. "Look," he started over. "We're on your side."

He spread out a hand toward Stevie, and her shield spun out from the shadows behind him. Raisa gave a sharp gasp and Bucky took a step forward, but the shield stopped a foot shy of them. Stevie's manacles unfastened themselves and clattered to the floor as the shield dropped into her hands lightly as a fallen leaf.

She swallowed to clear her throat. "Thanks," she said.

"Captain," Margot said. "I know we haven't given you much reason to trust us, but you know what kind of person Doctor Ritter is. You've heard him talk about how he 'awakens the power' inside us. When I arrived, he kept me in this dungeon for weeks at a time without light. I screamed myself hoarse; I beat my fists bloody on the walls. And I was one of the lucky ones. Believe me when I say you are our only hope. Please. Help us."

"And what is the power he awakened?" Stevie asked softly. "Do you see the future? Is that how the Doctor knew we were coming?"

"More or less."

She pointed at Erik. "And you move things with your mind, right?"

He nodded. "Only metal, but...yes."

"We punch things, shoot things and fly a bomber, respectively," Stevie said, indicating herself and her companions. "Why do people like you need our help?"

"Because we can't do what you can do," Margot replied. "I need you, all three of you. You can save them all, and I can't do that."

Stevie glanced back at Bucky, met his eyes. As rescues went, it was awfully strange.

Bucky shrugged. "Got any alternatives?"

"Sitting down here in the dark," Raisa said. "And waiting for deliverance."

"Good point," Stevie said. "All right. We're your men. Get us out of here."

* * *

Margot led them up a rough-hewn stair so narrow Stevie's shoulders brushed the walls on either side. A half-rotten wooden door let them out into what looked like an old guardroom with thick stone walls and a huge fireplace stained black from centuries of soot. To one side was a door, to the other a staircase leading up.

It was dark outside the narrow slit windows, and Stevie felt a moment of disorientation. Was it the same night, or the next? How long had she been out? Bucky was dirty and dishevelled, but, Stevie noticed with relief, uninjured. Raisa had a cut on her scalp that had bled down one side of her face and dried - probably from where the shield had hit her. She was limping slightly.

"Twisted my ankle a bit," she said, when she noticed Stevie looking. "It wasn't the softest of landings."

Stevie snorted a laugh.

"This is where we split up," Margot said. "Sergeant Barnes, you'll take Erik out to the mountainside overlooking the airfield. Captain, Lieutenant Gesheva, we'll go up to the radio tower."

"We're splitting up now?" Bucky said, frowning. "Captain, I don't like this."

"Even now, your Howling Commandos are returning," Margot said, face eerily calm. "The Hydra fighters will be waiting to slice them to ribbons. They were signaled with your own codes, Captain."

The girl's mouth twisted into a bitter smile.

"I know," she continued, "because I'm the one who called them. Erik can stop the planes and the anti-aircraft guns, but he needs to be able to see them. And we need to get to the radio tower so you can call your men and tell them in your own voice what awaits them."

She closed her eyes for a moment, a frown line appearing between her eyebrows.

"Right now, a guard is walking through the inner ward. In forty seconds it will be too late. Please, Captain. Trust me."

It felt like being being a piece in someone else's game, like walking on stage halfway through a show and not knowing who any of the characters were. Stevie didn't like it at all. And what she liked least was that she didn't have any other choice. She turned to Bucky, those forty seconds ticking away in the back of her mind.

"If you get hurt out there," she said. "I'll be very angry with you."

Bucky picked a stray twig out of her hair, and Stevie took his hand, holding it to the side of her face. His knuckles were scraped and bruised, sticky with drying blood from beating his fists on the walls.

"Wouldn't dream of it," He said. And then he was walking away, slipping through the door ahead of Erik without a sound.

* * *

The staircase spiralled up inside the old castle's thick walls. Bits of conversation, laughter, and snatches of song came through old servants' doors as they passed, but Margot didn't pause - didn't even slow down. She took them up two floors, until no more noise came through the walls, and led them out into a long, high-ceilinged room that had probably once been the castle's great hall.

Every cautious step they took echoed in the empty space. Tall windows along the left wall let in the pale moonlight, which slanted across a film projector and a row of desks facing a portable screen.

"Welcome to the Classroom," Margot said. She pointed to the projector.

"For languages," she continued. "English, French, German. We learn from cartoons, actually."

Other clusters of desks populated the room, facing pinned-up maps and anatomical charts, machine diagrams and floor plans - a chalkboard with what looked like an exercise in code-breaking written on it. There was a long table covered in what Stevie recognized as the parts of an explosive device, as well as one with strange, interlocking structures of wood and iron.

Raisa picked one up and turned it. The pieces shifted around each other. "Puzzles?" She asked.

"Tests," Margot corrected. "Some were like puzzles, and some were like games. But we don't know the rules, and we don't know if we've won until the end."

The next section of the room reminded Stevie of the boxing gym where Bucky worked out. Punching bags and marksman's dummies stood in rows. At the end, there was a wide, bare space. Margot stopped in the center.

"This is where he taught us to fight," she said. "Against each other. Against the guards. In teams. Alone. With weapons. With handicaps."

It took Stevie a moment to notice the black scorch marks on the walls, and she remembered the boy with the flame balanced over his hand.

"And this way," Margot opened a set of large double doors at the end of the room. "Is the Box."

_The Box_. Stevie had a fuzzy, half-formed memory - the blond boy, Stefan. _I'm not afraid of the Box_. She remembered his fear when Dr. Ritter chastised him.

Down the corridor, a heavy, steel door had been set into the wall, with a sliding hatch at eye level. The walls were thick, and so was the door, but Stevie could hear something on the other side - static and electronic squealing, blasts of noise like a malfunctioning radio.

"And what is the Box for?" Raisa asked, as if half-afraid to hear the answer.

In answer, Margot slid the viewing hatch open. Behind a thick pane of glass, a room - no windows, walls of bare stone. A girl in a white shift sat in one corner, hands curled protectively over her ears. The noise was louder now - alarms, buzzers, screeching and squawking. Lights in the room flashed at random, painfully bright. Raisa hissed a curse.

"This is how he triggers your power, isn't it?" Stevie said. "Stressors."

"Yes," the girl answered. "Different things, different combinations. But it doesn't work on everyone."

Stevie could guess what that meant.

_Some don't change. Some die._

Anger twisted in her gut like sickness. She had already seized the door handle to rip it off, when the girl inside the room stood up and opened her mouth in a desperate scream. Stevie's head rang like a bell, more a sensation than a sound. The heavy steel door thrummed under her hand and the glass cracked into a spiderweb. Inside the room, every wire sparked and every bulb shattered.

"Shit!" Raisa said, covering her ears. Margot had already ducked around a corner. There were benefits to being psychic, it seemed.

The door came off its hinges easily enough with a few kicks. Inside the windowless room, the girl was slight, with high cheekbones, almond-shaped eyes and a tangle of black hair hanging down her back. She balled her hands into fists in front of her and said something incomprehensible but clearly defiant.

"Whoa, whoa," Stevie said. "It's okay. I'm American." She opened her jacket, pointed to the star on her chest. "American."

"_Kto ty_?" The girl asked.

Raisa responded, "все в порядке. мы ваши друзья."

_So she's Russian. Now I see why Margot said she needed all of us. _The girl had seen this, and lined them all up perfectly like pieces on a board. No luck. No accidents. Stevie gently took Margot's shoulder and steered her a little away from the others.

"There's something I've been losing sleep over in the past few months," she murmured. "How Hydra kept being one step ahead. Knowing where we'd strike. There was a prison camp in Belgium…"

"East of Mechelen," Margot interrupted. "Yes, I know. One-hundred and sixty-two men died there." The girl looked down at her shoes. "You're thinking now that I condemned those men to death. My success bought the Doctor's trust. And I needed him to trust me, or this would never work."

_How old is this girl? _Stevie wondered. _Fourteen? Fifteen? _Too young to have to make these kinds of choices.

"Margot," Stevie said, tipping the girl's chin up to look her in the eyes. "I promise, I will help you in any way I can. But if your plan involves any of my people dying, you have to tell me right now."

"None of your men will die tonight, I swear," Margot whispered.

They were interrupted by the sound of laughter. The Russian girl was hugging Raisa around the waist.

"All good?" Stevie asked.

Raisa smiled wolfishly. "I told Yana here that we are going to kill Germans."

"Well, first we have to avoid getting blown up ourselves."

"You are a real...how do you say it...joy-killer?"

"Close enough."

* * *

Erik walked ahead of Bucky up what was little more than a goat path, hidden from the castle by scrub and tumbled boulders. The boy had returned Bucky's pistol, which he held loosely, looking around for guards. Or wolves. Wolves lived in places like this, didn't they? There was a scrambling noise ahead of him - Erik cursed in German as he slipped on the scree, and Bucky caught him by one sharp elbow before he could roll away down the mountain.

"Careful, kid," Bucky said. "Don't want to break your head open."

The boy pushed away roughly, dusting off his too-large coat. "Thanks," he said with a glare that was anything but grateful.

"No good deed…" Bucky muttered under his breath. They continued to climb, Erik's rough breathing and the noise of their boots the only sounds. The boy stopped, shoulders heaving.

"I'm not a coward," he said suddenly, voice tight.

"Didn't say you were."

"I know what you must think," Erik still wasn't looking at him. Apparently not listening to him either. "Why didn't I fight him? Why not kill the guards myself? But the Doctor...he...gets in your head...he..."

_Geez, don't cry. _Bucky wished Stevie were here. She was better at this sort of thing. What could he say? _I understand you - why, just last year I was strapped to a chair by crazy Hydra scientists_. Wasn't exactly a rousing speech.

"Hey, kid" Bucky said. "I don't give a shit what happened with you and Doctor Ritter last month, last week or yesterday."

At the profanity, the kid turned suddenly, eyes wide.

"Right now, though, we have a job to do. So let's quit flapping our gums and do it."

"Right," Erik said, staring at Bucky.

"Right." _Good job inspiring the kid, Barnes. I'm sure he's just bursting with confidence._ "Are we in the right place? Are we high enough?"

Erik turned his hawkish profile out over the fortress. Floodlights illuminated what used to be the castle's outlying fields and pastures, now converted into an airfield. "Yes. I only need to see the guns."

Bucky could see the guns himself, barrels the size of a man's torso and as long as house was tall - rendered toy-like by distance. Erik braced his feet and shook out his hands, then held them out in front of himself, breathing deep.

_What is he doing?_

Bucky could feel a charge building in the air, pulling at the fillings in his teeth. It smelled like lightning. Muscles stood out on Erik's neck, and he breathed in ragged gasps, like a man trying to lift a boulder. Slowly, he clenched his fists, held them, trembling with effort, then slumped over, panting.

"Was that it?" Bucky asked. "What'd you do?"

There was a sound in the distance. Engines. The Night Witches were coming. _Shit._ And he was up here, without anything to hit or shoot, while his friends were flying into a bear trap and his Captain was in God-knew what kind of danger.

"I closed the barrels," Erik said between gasps.

"The barrels? Of the guns?"

There was a loud boom, quickly followed by three more. The guns - but they hadn't fired. They had exploded. Bucky could see the soldiers, scurrying around like ants on the airfield below him, trying to contain the damage.

"Yes," said Erik, with a smug little smirk.

_I think I like this kid._

Down on the airfield, the little spots of pilots and crew swarmed to their planes.

"They're taking off." _Damn. _The Night Witches were some of the best pilots Bucky had ever seen, but against this many souped-up Hydra fighters they'd be toast.

Erik straightened up, rolled his shoulders. "I know. I'll take care of it."

"Have you...done anything like this before?" Bucky felt a stab of worry for the boy. If wrecking the guns had been like lifting a boulder, tackling a squad of planes would be like lifting a mountain.

Erik got back into his stance, hands up, jaw set. "I'm a quick study."

* * *

It was like last night, all over again. The stars, the stillness. The squadron of Messerschmitts coming out of the moonlight. _I knew something was wrong. _Peggy thought. _I knew it. _

"Agent Carter, should we retreat?" Her pilot's voice over the radio was brisk and steady.

"No. We're going to spring the trap. We have to assume the Captain's been...compromised." God, it hurt to say that. "Our mission remains the same. We have to destroy the facility."

"Got it." The pilot was radioing the other planes, when a blast of gunfire tore through the night right next to them. They dove and whirled away like a leaf in maelstrom, and when they came around there was a German fighter coming right at them.

_No time to turn._ Peggy thought, eerily calm. _We're going to get shot down._

Then, as if struck by an unseen fist, the fighter spun sideways, tumbled uncontrollably, and hit the side of a mountain in a ball of flame.

"Shit!" Peggy shouted, as her pilot cursed in Russian. "Did we do that?"

"No!"

"Then what the hell just happened?"

Peggy craned her neck, saw another Messerschmitt trying to get Jones' plane in its sights - then its wings tore off. Another fireball bloomed from the valley floor.

"What on earth?"

* * *

Before they could turn the corner, Margot stopped Stevie with a small hand on her arm.

"Captain, wait," she said.

"Soldiers?" Stevie whispered.

The girl nodded. Raisa and Yana had flattened themselves against the wall.

"The timing will be very tight. I need you to trust me, Captain."

"Alright," Stevie said. "Give me the plan."

Margot nodded. "Erik has made his presence known by now, and the Doctor is responding. In twenty seconds, you, Lieutenant Gesheva and myself will run for the radio room. It's that door, right there."

She pointed at a new door in set into the old stone wall, soundproofed and tightly sealed.

"It isn't locked. We should get in just ahead of the squad. Yana will need to stay here and take care of them. Will you tell her, Lieutenant?"

Raisa gave a curt nod, and began whispering to the Russian girl. Margot continued.

"We have to be in the room with the door shut before she begins. Yana's...ability...can easily destroy all the equipment inside."

"Got it," said Stevie. "Where are we in the countdown?"

"Five seconds. Four. Three. Two. Now!"

Stevie lead the sprint up the hallway, shield in front of her. When they were three steps from the door, a half-dozen soldiers came around the bend ahead of her. She kicked the door open.

"In! In!" She shouted as bullets pinged off her shield.

Raisa was the last one in, giving Yana a quick pat on the arm before closing the door. A moment later, Yana's scream made the door shake in its frame.

"Well," Stevie said. "Sounds like she has everything under control out there."

"Captain…" Raisa said in a strangled voice.

Stevie turned. The Russian Lieutenant and Margot were backed against the wall, hands raised. At the other side of the room, in front of the radio equipment - the blond boy. Stefan.

"Stop where you are!" He said. "Don't come any closer!"

His hands were glowing with a nimbus of blue-white flame. Behind Stefan, a bank of windows overlooked the airfield. Something there was burning, sending up great gouts of smoke.

"All right, Stefan," Stevie said, trying to keep her voice calm. "We won't."

As Stevie watched, a plane fell from the sky, hitting the airfield in a ball of fire. A German plane. Stefan twitched at the sound, and Stevie took one cautious step forward.

"Back!"

"We aren't here to hurt you."

The boy laughed - a harsh, humorless bark. "The Doctor said you'd say that. He sent me to take care of you."

Amidst the fear, a burst of pride on the boy's face.

_Oh, you poor kid._ Stevie thought. That Doctor had him all tangled up inside.

"Stefan," She said. "You saw that plane go down. The Night Witches are coming to destroy this facility. If you don't let me use the radio to signal them...well...all of us will die."

One step closer.

"Don't!"

The corona of flame around the boy's hands flared up, making the air in the room ripple with heat. The situation could get very bad, very fast. Stefan was powerful, driven, but he wasn't disciplined. He was afraid. Unsure.

"If you come any closer," Stefan said. "I'll kill them."

The boy glared at Margot, who stared back impassively. "I'll start with you, gypsy bitch. The Doctor trusted you."

Stevie's skin felt dry and tight, like the beginning of a bad sunburn. She had to keep the boy's focus on her and away from the others.

"Stefan, I'm not here to fight," Stevie set her shield down beside her and raised her hands. "I don't even have a gun."

She took a step closer to him. Another. It wasn't a particularly large room.

"I...I'm warning you…" Stefan was trembling now.

"I'm just going to signal the bombers," Stevie said. "After that, you can do whatever you want. Just let me call my people out there. Let me tell them to stand down."

She reached past Stefan smoothly and calmly, like she had all the time in the world, and turned the radio on.

"Peggy? Peggy, you out there? This is the Captain, over."

A burst of static, and then a familiar voice. "Captain! You don't know how good it is to hear your voice. How are things on your end?"

"Same to you, Agent," Stevie replied. "And things here are just peachy. You?"

"We had help from an unexpected quarter."

"A mutual friend. Can't wait to introduce you."

"Then we'll be down in a jiff."

"There are still some soldiers around the place, so be careful."

"Understood. See you soon, Cap."

Stevie signed off, with a brief sigh of relief.

"There," she said. "Now that we aren't at risk of getting blown to kingdom come, let's talk."

"The Doctor sent me," Stefan repeated, but Stevie could tell that even the remnants of his desperate courage were deserting him. The aura of flame around him was guttering out to nothing. "I'm going to take you to him…"

"And where is he, Stefan?" Stevie asked gently. "He's running, isn't he?" The boy avoided her eyes, which was it's own answer. "How were you supposed to get out once you'd disposed of me, before the bombers took the whole building down around you?"

"It isn't...he…" The boy's voice faltered.

"Did the Doctor take any of you with him? Any of the children?"

He shook his head.

"You're a smart boy," Stevie said, bending down to look Stefan in the eyes. "I think you can guess why not." He shook his head mutely. Stevie continued. "He hoped the bombers would destroy everything. If no evidence survived, we couldn't try him as a war criminal."

"No, no."

But Stefan's face was crumpling in on itself. He began to cry, silently, and Stevie put her arm around his shoulder.

"He said...he said I was the son he never had," the boy sobbed. "He said he'd be proud of me."

"I know." She said, patting the boy's back. "I know. It's going to be ok."

Raisa breathed out a long sigh, as if she'd been holding her breath for the entire conversation. Margot nodded and smiled as if she'd expected this outcome all along.

* * *

Bucky picked his way down the slope, gun in his right hand, Erik slung over his left shoulder like a rolled-up carpet. Despite his angular height, the boy only weighed about as much as a large cat.

On the mountainside overlooking the airfield, Erik's face had been a twisted snarl, his body rigid with effort. His hands moved in choppy, vicious gestures - breaking, ripping, twisting. And the planes had fallen burning from the sky. Then the boy had collapsed, Bucky barely catching him before he could tumble down the slope.

Hydra wanted supersoldiers - hell, they had tried to make _him_ into one. But _this_ was real power.

_We can't let Hydra have these kids_. Bucky thought. _But...should we get them either? _

He was approaching the castle wall, wondering where he could stash the kid so he could get back to the fight, when he saw three figures emerge from the postern gate. Two Hydra guards and a man wearing glasses. Doctor Ritter.

_Shit!_

Bucky ducked into the shadow of the flanking tower. He could hear the Doctor giving orders, the content obscured by distance. But he remembered that voice.

_He had woken up in the dark, and for a terrible moment he imagined that he was still in the chair, in Kreichsberg, that he had never left it, that the rescue and everything after had been a wishful dream. He had shouted until his throat was raw, flung himself uselessly at the walls, like a trapped animal. And then Doctor Ritter had opened the trapdoor._

"_Ah, Sergeant Barnes." His voice was pleasant and agreeable. "You look well, although I must confess, I'm surprised to see you conscious so soon. Your Captain will be so glad to see you."_

"_Where is she?" _

"_On her way. You'll see her soon."_

"_If you've hurt her…"_

_But the Doctor had closed the door over him. _

Bucky laid Erik carefully on the snowy ground and crept around the curve of the tower, back pressed against the cold stone, silent as a gentle breeze. He closed his eyes and listened to the footsteps growing closer. One breath. Two. He stepped out from behind the wall and shot the guards, one after the other, before they could draw their own guns. Doctor Ritter dropped his briefcase and pulled his own Luger, pointing it at Bucky's head.

"Your guns are scrap and your planes are smeared over ten different mountains," Bucky said. "Drop it, asshole."

The Doctor tilted his head to one side, looking at Bucky as if he were trying to read the other man's thoughts through his face. It didn't take Bucky much effort to let his hate burn in his eyes. Doctor Ritter frowned briefly, then, just as suddenly, smiled and tossed the pistol lightly aside. He held up his hands in surrender.

"Margot told me about you, Sergeant."

That fucking voice. So calm and cool. _I know everything about you_, the voice said. _I'm always a step ahead._

"You are the Captain's man," the Doctor continued. "Her truest girlhood friend. A protector. You may not believe in her ideals, but you would never disappoint her."

The truth of the situation flashed into Bucky's mind. The briefcase, the guards. Ritter would have let the facility be bombed, the children killed - but he would have taken his notes and fled to the nearest friendly megalomaniac. And gotten away with every awful thing he'd done.

"And now you will turn me over to her for justice?" Ritter asked, a confident little smirk on his face.

"Guess again," said Bucky, and shot him right between the eyes.

* * *

**The X-Men were my favorite childhood supergroup - and I wanted to give them a tip of the hat in this story. Hope you enjoyed it! As always, let me know what you thought. Next up - the aftermath of many things.**


	24. Interlude

**Hello all! I'm back!**

**So much has happened since the last time we met, like:**

***Depression medication that is actually worse than the depression itself!**

***My husband getting surgery!**

***And I took a cool online class about collaborating with schools, so there's that.**

**This is just a wee amuse-bouche to tide you over until until the next real chapter, which I hope to upload next week.**

* * *

Interlude - November 5, 1944 - Western Poland

* * *

All Raisa wanted when she returned to camp was a hot bath, a drink, and twenty minutes with Captain Rodgers' pretty sergeant. One out of three wasn't bad. She had just poured herself mug number four - or maybe five? - when Captain Rodgers pulled her out of the mess tent by her elbow.

"Have you told anyone?" The tall woman was nearly bent double to talk into Raisa's ear. "About what happened in the mountains?"

"You mean the magnetic cannon that destroyed those planes?" Raisa replied, taking a swig and wincing. Impossible to get good vodka on the front, but this tasted like it had been made in someone's boot. "Such a pity Dr. Ritter overloaded it when he escaped."

Rodgers' whole body seemed to unclench with relief.

"Thank you," she breathed.

"Don't mention it," Raisa replied. The Captain had saved her life, after all. This was the least she could do. "And what will you do with our young comrades, Captain?"

"They'll be going to England. We have a safehouse there. We'll send them back home when the war is over."

_If their homes still exist when the war is over,_ Raisa thought.

Still, despite her pessimism, she felt relieved. Not pawns, not weapons - the children would be free and clear if the Captain was as dedicated to their welfare as she seemed. Raisa loved Mother Russia, but there was a limit to how much she was willing to sacrifice for her. Not her life - her honor. Her integrity.

_I'm giving up enough of that, already._

Polkovnik Yakunin was at his desk when she came in the next morning, paging through a thick file. No matter that Raisa had woken up feeling like her skull was two sizes too small, she snapped smartly to attention.

"Sir!"

"Lieutenant." He closed the file and looked up. "Please sit."

Raisa perched uneasily on the edge of a flimsy camp chair and tried to ignore the headache pulsing behind her eyes. There was a strange woman in the corner of the room, slim and blonde, with striking features and a dancer's posture. Black uniform, no insignia.

_Secret police? Special forces?_

The woman turned her blue gaze on Raisa, and she felt a prickle between her shoulder blades, like she was in the cross hairs of an unseen gun.

"So," Yakunin said. "The objective. You have it?"

Raisa looked from him to the blonde, who quirked an eyebrow at her, the slightest smile turning up one corner of her cupid's bow lips. Suddenly, Raisa's mouth was even dryer than before.

"You may trust Captain Belova as you would me."

"Of course," Raisa said. "Sorry, sir."

With exaggerated care, she took off her right boot and turned it over, sliding open the hidden chamber in the heel. When she pulled out the slender vial, Belova stepped closer, lifting one hand as if to touch it.

"This is the specimen?" She said, eyes glinting avidly. "How did you get it?"

"This is Captain Rodgers' blood, yes," Raisa said. _I took it while she was unconscious, after she saved my life._ The guilt had bit at her, even as she did it.

_Rodgers won't miss it. I have to think of my country. I have to think of myself._

Captain Belova didn't seem to notice Raisa's awkward silence, as she took the vial with deft fingers and slotted it into a small silver case. Raisa noticed it was stamped "Top Secret: Project Black W -". Then the woman tucked it back into her coat and swept out without another word. Yakunin did not even watch her leave.

"Thank you, Lieutenant," The Polkovnik said. "You will be rewarded. You may go."

He returned to his file, as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

Raisa stood to leave, then stopped. Turned back.

"Forgive me, sir…"

He looked up at her with those colorless, emotionless eyes.

"Yes?"

_What will you do with it?_

"Nothing. Thank you, sir."

* * *

**Can you guess what Belova is taking the blood for? Bet you can, you smart cookies, you.**

**Next time - Christmas under fire, and Stucky fluff. Because I love you guys.**


	25. Chapter 24

**Hello, beautiful readers! Guess who just watched Civil War? Me! And it filled my fangirl heart with such joy - and exciting ideas for future directions this story could take. Not to be a corporate shill, but you should see it. **

**In personal news, I had some job interviews this past week. Wish me luck! I could end up in the Pacific Northwest...**

**And now, what you really come here for - the story!**

* * *

Chapter 24 - December 24, 1944 - La Gleize, Belgium

* * *

"Well," Stevie said, letting a lump of half-frozen stew fall from her spoon back into the can. "This Christmas is shaping up to be something of a disappointment."

Bucky grunted, gnawing on a ration bar.

They had been dropped into the valley of Cheneux with the 82nd Airborne and had ended up in La Gleize, a village whose roads were more suited to ponies than Panzers. That didn't stop it from being taken and retaken, as Kampfgruppe Peiper's tank division tried to push back the American advance. Colonel Phillips had been right on the money when he sent them to the Ardennes. The forests and hills and sleepy villages were Hitler's final battlefield on the Western Front. If they broke the Germans here…

_We could chase them all the way back to Berlin._

For this mission, the Howling Commandos had been split up, lending their skills wherever they were needed. Dernier and Jones were blowing bridges with the Corps of Engineers, Dugan and Morita coordinating artillery strikes. Peggy and Falsworth provided tactical support at base camp, and Stevie and Bucky...well. They were the bruisers. For the past week, they had fought from street to street and house to house, trying to break Peiper's hold on the village, his last bastion.

Now they sat on the floor of the chapel as mortars boomed in the background, unable to risk a campfire to keep out the cold. Squat and thick-walled, the church had survived for centuries only to lose its tower and half its roof in the past few days. One corner was completely open to the night, and gusts of wind whirled through the gap, stirring up glinting crystals of snow.

Stevie abandoned her can of stew and pulled her jacket more tightly around herself.

"How do you think the kids are doing?" She asked Bucky.

"Better off than we are," Bucky said, giving the rest of the ration bar a skeptical look before rewrapping it and stuffing it into his pocket. "Enjoying the full Falsworth Manor Christmas while we're freezing our asses off."

"Language. And you know what I mean."

"Yeah." Bucky was silent for a moment.

After Stevie had come back from that lab in the Tatra Mountains, she had stowed the children in the Howling Commandos' own tents, with Sergeant Dugan watching over them like a father bear. Then - blood still drying on her face - she had gone to see Polkovnik Yakunin, to tell him the children were going to England. Surprisingly, the Polkovnik had given in without a fight.

Erik hadn't. He'd wanted to go with the Commandos, had begged to go. Stevie turned him down.

The next morning he was gone, Yana and Margot with him.

"Erik's tough," Bucky said. "He can take care of himself. And the girls aren't exactly shrinking violets, either. You heard what happened at Malmedy."

"I think everyone has."

A force of German tanks had surprised an American convoy at a crossroads near Malmedy - another little village, not 15 miles from La Gleize. When the Americans surrendered, the Germans had herded them all into a field and opened fire. They would have become another terrible footnote in the general carnage - but the bullets stopped in midair, turned to strike the men who fired them. The tanks were found later, on the road to Ligneuville, twisted and torn, thrown about like toys. Even the soldiers who had been there talked about the event in hushed tones, wondering what had saved them - miracle or monster?

Stevie knew. _Erik._

The children had disappeared in Poland over a month ago, and now they were only minutes away. Were they cold? Hungry? In danger?

"I hate this," Stevie said. "Being so close, but not being able to do anything for them."

"You aren't the Second Coming. You don't _have_ to save everyone. Hell, some people don't _want_ to be saved."

The wind had stilled. In the icy silence, Stevie could hear the soft hiss of snow as it fell through the splintered rafters like sand.

* * *

_The Commandos had gone with the children back to Falsworth Manor, partially to help them settle in, partially to make sure no one intercepted them en route, took them away to be living weapons for some other power. _

_There were twelve, now that Erik and the girls were gone, ranging from little Omar - who had walked through a locked pantry door and been found asleep, covered in jam - to Rosa, a ten-year-old girl who could paralyze a grown man with a touch. And, of course, Stefan, with his golden hair and his haunted eyes. Stefan, the fire boy. _

_Falsworth's staff were made of sterner stuff than most, and hadn't turned a hair when told the nature of their charges._

"_It'll be good to have children about for Christmas again," the housekeeper had said. "Poor little things."_

_Colonel Phillips had snorted at that. "Normal children are bad enough. We'll come back to find this place torn down around their ears." _

_Sooner than Stevie would have thought possible, the children were running, laughing, climbing over Sergeant Dugan like puppies - all except Stefan. He lurked on the fringes like a specter, until Stevie took pity on him and challenged him to a game of chess. _

_The boy was a good player - thoughtful, if a bit tentative. Stevie had plenty of practice from her days staying home with head colds, but Stefan could still beat her - even if it wasn't often. Sometimes, Stevie would talk about her Brooklyn childhood as they played - long summer days reading on the porch. Matinees and popcorn, going to baseball games with her pa. Sometimes, she'd ask Stefan questions. What did he like to read? How did he like English food? Little by little, he started to open up to her, but he still wouldn't talk to anyone else. Wouldn't stop hovering at the edges of rooms like a ghost._

_One afternoon, they set up in Falsworth's library, next to the suit of armor and the cannon. They had made their usual opening skirmish, and Stevie picked up her bishop, tapped it against her chin as she thought. Threaten, or attack?_

"_Can I ask you something, Captain?" The boy said._

"_Sure." _

"_I know you're leaving soon."_

"_Yes." _

_Stefan hesitated, looking at the board, tipping his ebony rook this way and that. _

"_What are you getting at?" Stevie asked._

"_Can I come with you?" It was almost too soft to hear._

_Stevie's heart sank._ Not again. Don't make me lose another one. _She set her bishop down with a soft click._

"_Stefan." She tried to meet the boy's eyes, but they were still fixed on the board. She made her voice as kind as she could. "A war is no place for a…"_

"_Child?" He looked at her then, voice harsh, face flushed with anger. "I'm not a child. You don't know...you don't know what I've done. What...what I am."_

_The anger left Stefan as quickly as it had come. Now he was blinking back tears. Stevie bit back a surge of anger at Ritter, tried to keep it out of her face even as she mentally cursed him for escaping justice. _

When I find you, you bastard...

"_Let me get this straight," she said gently. "You think you're such a terrible person, that going to war, fighting - _killing _Nazis - is the only way you can make amends?"_

_Stefan's lower lip trembled and he bit it, hard. His hand was fisted on the table. Stevie took it in both of hers. _

"_Something bad happened to you," she said. "But that doesn't make you bad. Whatever you've done, whatever you were...you don't have to be that anymore. You can choose." _

_His tight fist opened, and he took her hand, holding on as if he'd be swept away without it._

"_The others need you here. You're the oldest now. They need you to keep them safe."_

"_I was Ritter's pet. They don't trust me."_

"_They will," she said. "When you earn it." _

"_Don't you mean _if _I earn it?"_

"_When."_

_Stefan pulled his hand from hers, scrubbed at his eyes fiercely with his sleeve. He took a deep, shuddering breath. Another. When he finally spoke, it was a whisper._

"_I'll try."_

* * *

Amid the rubble of the church, a statue of the Blessed Virgin stood incongruously unharmed, slender hand lifted in blessing. Clouds streamed over the moon, and shadows flowed over her face like a veil - concealing, revealing.

_I know you probably have better things to do right now. _Stevie prayed. _But, if you're listening, please take care of the kids. Take care of Stefan. Show him that he isn't broken. Give him a chance to grow up._

Bucky bumped his shoulder against hers.

"Hey. You alright? You aren't falling asleep on me, are you?"

Stevie wiped her nose, cleared her throat.

"Just wondering what you got me for Christmas this year," she said.

Bucky put on a tone of mock indignation.

"What, the rock I got you last year wasn't enough? A genuine, Roman rock." He shook his head. "Women. Never satisfied."

"You know, I still keep that rock. Carry it with me everywhere."

"Liar."

"Want to search me and find out?"

Bucky spluttered.

"Ha!" Stevie crowed. "You're blushing!"

"You can't prove that."

"You are! You're buying the drinks next time. I got you, Barnes."

He leaned in and rested his forehead against hers. Their breath mingled in the dark.

"Yes," he said. "You do."

* * *

_"I could get used to this."_

_Peggy stretched languorously, and leaned back in one of the morning room's soft, upholstered armchairs._

_"You mean real chairs?" Stevie replied._

_"Chairs! Beds! Hot baths! Hot tea!" She picked up her own cup, took a sip, and sighed rapturously. "It's paradise."_

_"Well, enjoy it while you can. Colonel says we're going back to Belgium next week."_

_"Then I will savor this moment." Peggy closed her eyes, let the morning sun play over her face._

_Stevie took a sip of her own tea and winced._

_"What do you people have against a nice, hot, cup of joe?" She asked._

_"Dark and strong?" Peggy opened one eye, playfully. "Is that how you like it?"_

_"I have no idea what you're talking about," Stevie said, taking another anemic sip._

_"Mmmm," Peggy's eyes were closed again. "I notice you aren't that upset about dear Howard's absence. One might think you'd found someone else. A new beau on the scene?"_

_Howard was in Germany, working on some top-secret project, and Stevie was relieved. She didn't look forward to their next conversation. Time had proven that she was no good at talking about her feelings._

_"I don't have a beau," Stevie said. "Good grief, you're as bad as Doris."_

_"Who's Doris?"_

_"Someone I knew in the USO."_

_"Was she beautiful and skilled?"_

_"Try nosy," Stevie said. "And a pain in the neck."_

_How was Doris? She wondered. And Sal, and the rest? Still touring, even after she'd left them in the middle of Italy? Stevie had never bothered to find out._

I'll get in touch_, She promised herself._ As soon as we get home_._

_Home. During the past year, she'd barely thought about Brooklyn, about who and what she'd left behind. She felt almost guilty at the realization._

_"Am I interrupting?"_

_Both women turned to find Bucky standing in the door. Clean and shaved, healed and rested - he looked more like the boy Stevie had sent off to war than he had in months. And suddenly she understood. She hadn't been homesick, because Bucky was here. She was more at home in Germany, or Belgium, or Poland with Bucky than she had been in Brooklyn after he left._

_"Not at all, Sergeant Barnes," Peggy said. "We were debating the strengths of tea versus coffee. Do you have a preference?"_

_Bucky looked from one woman to the other, mouth quirking up in a one-sided grin. "I'd rather not take sides. Colonel wants to see the Captain, I'm afraid."_

_"Ah," Peggy leaned back in her chair, waved them away regally. "Well, in that case, you may go. Don't make too much noise on the way out."_

_Stevie followed Bucky out into the corridor. She had meant to tell him. After her standoff with Yakunin, she had meant to go straight to Bucky, to tell him how she felt. When she got to his tent, he'd been getting cleaned up, buttoning up his shirt, wet hair slicked back. Her words had tangled in her throat and they ended up talking about Dr. Ritter's escape. Not a romantic theme._

_"What does Colonel Phillips want to see me about?" She asked._

_"Nothing," Bucky replied. "I just needed to talk to you. Come on."_

_He picked up the pace and Stevie stretched her long legs to their full stride. They went down a flight of stairs, around a corner. Bucky stopped at an inconspicuous door, looked up and down the hall, and ushered her inside. They bumped into each other in the dark for a bit, until a light clicked on, illuminating a room full of neatly folded sheets._

_"The linen closet? Bucky, what is this about?"_

_He was facing away from her, shoulders hunched with tension._

_"When you fell," he said. "When I thought you were dead...I realized there was something I had to tell you. I've been meaning to tell you for ages, but it never came out right."_

I've been tying myself up in knots_, Stevie thought. _And all this time, he's been trying to tell me the same thing_._

_She realized she had been holding her breath, let it out...and suddenly she was laughing. At the linen closet, at herself. At what idiots they both were._

_Bucky turned, as surprised as if she'd punched him._

_"What? Why are you laughing? What did I say?"_

_She leaned forward and kissed him on the mouth. For a moment, he froze in surprise, but then he responded, hands moving to the small of her back, pulling her tight against him. She wasn't sure what to do with her hands at first, so she twined them into his hair._

_When they broke apart, both were breathless._

_"I love you, Rodgers." Bucky's eyes burned into hers. "I think I've loved you since we were kids."_

_The room smelled of lavender and clean laundry, and Stevie knew she would love that scent from now on. Bucky's hands were still on her back. Stevie stroked his hair back from his face._

_"Well," she said. "What took you so long?"_

* * *

This week had been the longest time Stevie and Bucky had spent alone together. They had slept next to each other in foxholes and lean-tos and bombed-out buildings, so tired even the boom of artillery couldn't wake them. There was barely time to eat, and no time to wash. They were cold and bruised, and occasionally terrified. It had been the longest week of Stevie's life. She didn't want it to end.

Bucky unscrewed his flask and took a drink, then passed it to her.

"Do you ever think about what you'll do after the war?" Bucky asked.

"Oh, Peggy and I have it all worked out," Stevie replied, taking a sip and wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "We're going to share an apartment and be telephone operators."

"I'd hate to disturb your plan," he said softly. "But I heard about something...vets who come back get all sorts of perks. Loans for houses, college for free, that sort of thing."

"You planning on college, Buck?" Stevie asked, teasingly. Bucky always told her he had enough of school by tenth grade.

He snorted.

"Like hell. You'd go to college. I can get my job at the shop back."

"And the house? You thinking of moving upstate?"

"We could go anywhere - California, Arizona. Didn't you tell me you wanted to go West? Sent me enough sketches of mountains."

_We...Bucky's talking about moving in together. He's talking about getting married. _Stevie was surprised by how little she was surprised. She guessed it had been coming for a long time.

"I've always wanted to see the Grand Canyon," she said. "The Redwoods."

"Guess you'll have to tell Peg the plan's off."

"I'm sure she'll get over it," Stevie said. "Will we make pillow forts in our big new house?"

"Anytime."

"Then I'm in."

She put her hand on his, fingers intertwining through two sets of gloves. She smiled in the darkness of the church. She didn't know what would happen tomorrow, or even in the next five minutes, but this moment was hers, and it would never end.

* * *

**I promised Stucky fluff and Stucky fluff I have delivered. ****Writing about Stefan makes me want to see him and Falsworth have Cold War adventures with the other mutant kids. Anyone want to write it for me?**

**Some historical deets in this chapter:**

Astute readers may note that this chapter takes place during the Battle of the Bulge, an offensive that was super important and complicated and has whole books written about it. I tried to be as accurate as I could within the confines of not wanting to take months off to research it. Anyway, La Gleize is real and the chapel is real. Look up "La Gleize, chapel, statue, ww2" and the first few image results will be the statue that Stevie sees in this chapter. The dates and details are fudged a bit; please forgive me.

The massacre at Malmedy really happened. Sadly, since young Erik was not on hand, the Americans did die. Kampfgruppe Peiper was known for this kind of thing - his tank unit were called the Blowtorch Battalion because they were known for setting villages on fire. Nazis really were terrible people, folks.

**Next time: A brief interlude, and then we're back to movie continuity...and you know what that means...**


	26. Interlude 2

**Hello, beautiful readers!**

**Lately, I've gotten some guest reviews that I wish I could respond to in a direct message. Let me just say, thanks for reading - and thank you very much for sharing your personal stories with me. I'm glad my little story has touched you in some way.**

* * *

Interlude - January 2, 1945 - Bucky

* * *

The Germans had pulled out of La Gleize on Christmas Eve, abandoning their artillery - including a 70-ton Tiger tank stuck halfway through a wall. The boys took a picture of the Howling Commandos standing around it - Stevie sitting on top, flashing a broad grin and the "V for Victory" sign. While Allied soldiers cheered and sang raucous carols, the citizens of La Gleize crept out of their basements to see what was left of their lives. The answer was - not much.

As the locals tried to dig out their houses, they were joined by refugees from surrounding villages - first a trickle, then a flood. Pinched-looking women, carved away by fear and fatigue; boys with darting eyes and sharp cheekbones; wizened old men - they came wearing every piece of clothing they owned, carrying everything they couldn't stand to lose. They had heard the La Gleize was "safe".

The GI's did what they could, and the Commandos helped - Stevie especially; shifting rubble, dragging artillery pieces out of town, cutting and hauling huge timbers to brace walls and rebuild roofs. She wore her jacket open to show the star on her chest, and reassured people in her bad French and worse German, telling them not to worry - they would be taken to safety, and the war would be over soon.

For his own part, Bucky put on his most charming smile and helped settle the civilians in makeshift shelters - any barn or stable sound enough not to fall down on top on them.

Now he was helping a new arrival - a white-haired grandmother who barely reached his shoulders. The woman had walked through the mountains all night, with a cane, to reach the town. When Bucky hauled her rucksack to her new quarters, a farmer's canning shed with a stone floor softened by clean straw, she had kissed his cheeks, dampening them with her tears.

"You're alright, now. _C'est bon._" He murmured, and patted her gently on the back until she stopped crying.

He emerged from the shed into the farmer's stubbled fields, half-frozen ground crunching under his boots, and walked the few minutes back to the town proper. It was strange to see it coming back to a sort of life - smoke curling out of chimneys, soldiers striding around, trucks driving down the streets they'd managed to clear, dogs barking at everything and everyone. A handful of children were even playing an improvised game of soccer with a ball made of rags. Bucky let his feet carry him, giving little half waves to people he passed. He turned a corner, and there, in an open square was Stevie. He'd been looking for her without even realizing it.

She was playing with a chubby toddler in a hand-knitted scarf - tickling his nose and making him squeal with laughter. She'd always been so good with kids - probably because she wasn't afraid to make a complete fool of herself. Bucky felt his whole face soften as he looked at her. When was the last time he smiled without hiding some little splinter in his heart? He felt like it was a long time ago.

_We could have a kid, _Bucky thought, suddenly. If they got married as soon as they got back home, they could have a baby of their own as soon as next year. The realization made him dizzy with fear and excitement.

He'd be a good dad, he told himself. Not like his father. He'd teach the boys how to play ball - and the girls too, why the hell not? In his mind's eye, the chubby boy became a little girl, with dark hair and Stevie's blue eyes. He felt a lump rise in his throat.

Stevie noticed him, and passed the boy back to his mother.

"What are you thinking about?" She asked, when she reached him. "You were making the weirdest face."

"Nothing," he replied. No one was watching them, so he wound her braid around his hand and brought it to his lips. Her hair smelled like woodsmoke and snow.

"Captain!"

Bucky dropped the braid, pretended he had been adjusting his jacket.

It was Private Jones, with a thermos of hot coffee and news from the Colonel.

"Word is, Adolf's not the only one on the run," the Private said with a sly smile.

"Hydra?" Stevie asked. "Schmidt's pulling back?"

Jones nodded. "The good Doctor's being moved out of Austria - him and a train full of heavy artillery."

"Zola," Bucky growled. Even after a year, the Doctor's name till made his whole body clench with revulsion.

"We've given HItler a black eye," Stevie said. "Let's give Schmidt a bloody nose!"

She clapped Bucky on the shoulder, and he could feel her excitement.

"Looks like we're going back to Austria, Buck. What do you think?"

He smiled wolfishly.

"I think Arnim Zola and I have a lot of catching up to do."

* * *

**The Tiger tank is real! You can see it at the December 44 Historical Museum in La Gleize, if you ever go there.**

**Cool quote from the same museum's website: "It is often said that if the Americans won the Battle of the Bulge at Bastogne, the Germans lost it at La Gleize."**

**Next time: You all knew it was coming...**


	27. Chapter 25

**Thank you for following, beautiful readers. And now...the sadness.**

* * *

Chapter 25 - January 12, 1945 - Italy

* * *

It was the same bar. The bar where she had first brought her seven together and formed the Howling Commandos, where Bucky had said he'd follow that skinny girl from Brooklyn anywhere. The past year had reduced it to a blasted shell, windows broken out, furniture splintered. An apt metaphor, really. Or a horrible joke.

_The mission had been easy - if you could ever call leaping from a steel cable onto a moving train easy. The intel, the setup, everything as smooth as you could ask for. She and Bucky had joked about it. Talked about riding the roller coaster on Coney Island when they were kids. _

_Joked. _Stevie felt sick thinking about it.

She took another swig of her drink. Whatever it was, it was bright green and pungent, like a mouthful of thistles.

_Isn't booze supposed to dull memory? _

Hers was painfully sharp.

_There had only been time for three of them to get onto the train - her and Bucky of course, with Jones as the third because he was the youngest and quickest on his feet. Jones would go on to the engine car and take control of the train, while she and Bucky would enter a car at the middle of the train to draw fire. _

_They walked slowly through gray and windowless cars, Stevie on point with her shield up, Bucky covering her with his rifle. Except for the train's constant clattering motion, everything had been silent, empty. Then a door had slammed shut between them, a huge Hydra soldier with what looked like a handheld cannon blasting bolts of blue-white energy at her. She knocked him out with some clever shield work, used his cannon to blow open the door. Then she and Bucky had downed his own attacker with a neat little combo maneuver, she pushing a crate over to drive him out of cover, Bucky downing him in one shot as soon as he emerged. Business as usual. He'd made another joke._

_But then…_

If only there was more work, something she could throw herself into. She'd spent the day digging out the bar, moving rubble, sweeping up, sorting out what was too damaged to save - until the barman had all but pushed her into a rickety chair and set a glass in front of her. He'd taken a second look and brought her the bottle.

Stevie felt like she was falling. She didn't know when she'd hit the ground, but when she did, she'd break into pieces. She poured herself another drink, held the cool glass against her forehead, eyes shut. Careful footsteps crunched across the floor, boots on whatever broken glass Stevie hadn't managed to sweep up. A chair dragged, and a glass clinked, and when she opened her eyes, Peggy was sitting across the table from her.

"You know," the other woman said, taking the bottle out of Stevie's hand, "Dr. Erskine once told me that the serum would work directly on your cells to create a protective system of regeneration and healing."

Peggy poured an inch of green liqueur into her own glass. "I'm afraid that means you can't get drunk."

She took a sip and winced. "God, that's vile."

They sat in silence for a moment.

"It wasn't your fault," Peggy said softly. "You did everything you could."

Stevie's hand was clenched around the glass. She could shatter it without trying, if she wanted to, might not even cut herself. She'd broken iron and bent steel with those hands. But when it counted…

"That's not true," Stevie said.

_The man with the cannon hadn't been as unconscious as Stevie thought. She saw him rise out of the corner of her eye and shoved Bucky behind her, brought up the shield just in time to catch the blast. It bounced off the shield and blew a hole in one side of the car, throwing her into the opposite wall hard enough to make her ears ring. It took her four seconds to shake it off and get up._

"Did you believe in Sergeant Barnes?" Peggy interrupted her reverie.

"What?" Stevie looked up. Peggy looked intent, compassionate, dark eyes focused on her, hands elegantly folded on the tabletop. She'd found time and polish to paint her nails again, somehow. Dark, shining, crimson.

"Did you trust him?"

"Of course," Stevie replied.

"He chose to follow you. He damn well thought you were worth it."

Worth it. How could she be worth someone else's life? She had asked all the Commandos to put their lives on the line. For her, for her plans. What had it all meant - this year of playing cat-and-mouse with Hydra, with Schmidt? She had picked up the mantle of "Captain America" to rescue Bucky, and after everything, here she was, back at square one, and she'd lost him. What had all of this been for? _What good are you?_

_Stevie had shaken off her dizziness and looked up just in time to see Bucky and the guard shoot each other - Bucky, holding her shield in front of him, got the guard in the chest just as a cannon blast flung him from the train._

"_Bucky!"_

_The fear was ice water in her veins as she ran to the jagged rent in the car's wall. The metal had been peeled back like the lid of a sardine can, and Stevie felt her heart lurch in her chest as she saw Bucky clinging to what had been a handrail. _

"_Hold on!"_

_He didn't speak, eyes wide, hands white-knuckle tight. The car opened onto a sheer drop, hundreds of feet of snowy cliff, a silver glint of river far below. There was another handrail, close to her. Stevie tried not to look down as she took hold of it and stepped out of the car, feet braced on what had been the ridged interior wall. The motion of the train made the metal shudder and creak, but she slid herself toward Bucky as quickly as she dared, until the rail ended and there was nowhere else to go. He was only a few feet from her, using all his strength to hang on as the metal swayed and shook. Stevie let go with her left hand hand and reached for Bucky, as far as she could. Inside her right glove, her hand was sweating. She prayed she wouldn't slip._

"_Grab my hand!"_

_There were two feet between them. Less. Bucky's face was pale with fear. He reached for her, slipped a little, grabbed the rail again, chest heaving. His whole body clenched; Stevie saw it - he was going to launch himself from the wall, use momentum to close the distance. She braced herself to catch him._

_He pushed off, arm outstretched._

_His fingers brushed hers._

_And then the rail gave way under him, and he fell, mouth open in a scream she couldn't hear._

_She didn't see him hit the ground._

Stevie looked at her own left hand, palm up on the table, closed it into a fist. She could feel the ghost of that last touch, his fingers on hers.

"We were going to be married," she said.

"Oh," Peggy breathed, set her gentle hand on Stevie's fist. "I'm so sorry."

Stevie felt her throat close painfully, took another drink and let the burn of the alcohol give her an excuse to cough it clear.

"We talked about going to California, getting a house."

The bottle was weeping drops of condensation and she traced lines in the water, trying to hold onto what composure she still possessed.

"What do you need?" Peggy said.

_To go to sleep and never wake up again. To go home, back to when I was just Stephanie Rogers. _

_But I can't._

"I'm going after Schmidt," she said. "I'm ending this. I'm not going to stop until all of Hydra is dead or captured."

Peggy leaned forward, squeezed Stevie's hand in both of hers. Stevie swallowed around a lump in her throat.

"You won't be alone."

* * *

**Astute readers may notice that Stevie and Peggy are drinking Centerba - the same liqueur Bucky drank back in Chapter 12. Continuity!**

**I'm not used to writing really tragic scenes, so you will have to tell me how I did.**

**Next up: The final chapter!**


	28. Chapter 26

**Hello, lovely readers! Here's another chapter I didn't intend to write. I wanted to get right to the action - but the characters wanted a chance to say goodbye. Hope you like it.**

* * *

Chapter 26 - March 1-3, 1945

* * *

"Hopefully, you won't have to use this."

The device in Stark's hand was about the size of a silver dollar, with six small prongs coming out of one side and a tiny blue light on the other.

"But," he continued, smile quirking up one side of his mouth. "If you do end up boarding the plane, it'll make your life much easier."

With some encouragement from Colonel Phillips, Zola had given them the details of the Red Skull's final plan. A huge bomber, the Valkyrie, would carry eight smaller planes - each targeting a different city along the East Coast, each equipped with a miniature A-bomb. It would be something of a Pyrrhic victory for Schmidt, given how much of his infrastructure he had already lost - but he'd get to lord it over an atomic wasteland, and Stevie guessed that for him that was good enough.

Zola had given them more than just warnings - he'd sketched maps of Hydra HQ in Austria, even a set of blueprints for the Valkyrie, which he helped design. Maps and blueprints that now lay on a huge table in SSR headquarters, yellow in the lamplight. She'd spent almost every waking moment with the Colonel, and Peggy and the other Commandos, planning attacks and contingencies. Plan A was to storm Hydra HQ and seize Schmidt before he could escape, keep the Valkyrie from ever lifting off the tarmac. If Schmidt did get to the plane, Plan B was to board it and take it down, using whatever means necessary.

That was where Stark came in. He couldn't join the assault - he was no soldier - but he was doing his best to give Stevie the benefit of his mechanical expertise. She had flat-out refused to talk to Zola. However practical it might have been, she knew she couldn't look at that sniveling toady without wanting to smash his teeth in.

"Walk me through it again," Stevie said.

"Every interior door has a control panel," Stark said, running a hand through his hair, uncharacteristically disheveled from long days and late nights of endless planning. "It's a security redundancy. Remove the panel and attach this to the underlying wiring."

Blueprints, sketches and diagrams were heaped between them on the conference table. Stark tapped his little device on one that showed a cutaway of a wiring schematic.

"Here, and here. This little beauty will override the central control mechanism and seal all interior doors."

That way she wouldn't have to fight a crew of sixteen men before getting to the Red Skull himself. At the thought of him, Stevie's fists clenched in her lap. The man who had caused so much death. Who had caused Bucky's death. After so long being one step behind him, she'd finally confront him in person. She couldn't wait to slam that ugly face into the ground.

"Stevie?" Stark asked.

"Hmm?" She returned to the present with a start.

"You looked miles away."

"Sorry," she said. Her fingernails were digging into her palms, and she forced her hands to unclench. Tried to smile. "It sounds perfect. Let's go over cockpit controls."

She started hunting through the sheets on the table. Howard put his hand over hers.

"You haven't been sleeping much, have you?" He asked.

_Every time I try, I see my best friend falling to his death._

"As much as you have," she responded.

"Touché." He smiled wearily.

Stark had been different since coming back from his mission in Finow. No longer the smooth, charming inventor - he was haggard. Shaken. Driven. Forgetting to shave, working at all hours - up with her now at...Was it one in the morning? Stevie would have felt guilty for keeping him awake, except that he seemed desperate to avoid having even a moment alone with his thoughts. He tried to cover up the change with the usual quips and flirting, but she could see the cracks in the facade.

_Maybe because I'm all cracks, myself. Held together with string and determination._

Stevie turned her hand over, her palm to his.

"What happened at Finow?" She asked, gently.

"I trusted someone I shouldn't have," Stark said. He sighed, rubbed his face. In that moment, he looked years older than the last time she'd seen him, when they'd danced in the gazebo. Before she realized she was in love with someone else. Before they'd been slapped around by their respective tragedies.

"I won't do that again." He smiled sardonically, as if mocking his own weakness. "But I'd rather not talk about it, if it's all the same to you."

She nodded. "I understand."

Stark's face turned serious again. "I'm sorry about Barnes. We weren't friends, but he was a good man. Everyone knows that."

He squeezed her hand.

"If you ever need to talk...I'm always up late these days."

"Thanks," she said. Maybe if she were more generous she'd have embraced him, let him cry on her shoulder. But she couldn't, so she just gave his hand an answering squeeze before pulling hers away.

"I'll keep it in mind."

Howard gave a resigned little sigh. "So. Control systems?"

"Control systems."

He shuffled through the blueprints until he found the one she'd been looking for, a rough sketch of the Valkyrie's cockpit - ridiculously large.

"The plane's power source is the Tesseract itself," Stark said. "There's nothing else with enough power to get a plane that size off the ground. Zola says its control housing is in the cockpit, here."

The sketch showed a cylindrical containment chamber rising from the center of the floor. Stark smiled wolfishly.

"I'd say that's a definite weak point."

Stevie felt a fierce joy at the thought of smashing the blue cube, sending the plane down into the sea.

_You won't get away from me this time, Schmidt._

* * *

"Are you _sure _this is the best plan?" Dugan asked.

"Look at the map," Stevie said. "What do you see?"

He took off his hat, scratched his head, and put it back with a disgruntled sigh. Dugan, Morita, Dernier, Jones, Falsworth, Peggy - they'd been cooped up for hours in an office that was too small for so many people - the same office that Stevie was practically living in these days. This morning, it smelled like sweat and bitter coffee.

"One entrance," Stevie continued. "Fortified. Dug into a mountain. It's a choke point; they can throw troops at it all day. But…"

She pulled another map from a pile on the long table, slapped it down over the one they'd been studying.

"What about here?"

"There? The Red Skull's _office_?" Morita's voice climbed with incredulity. "With a panoramic view of the alps because it's carved into a _fucking cliff face?_ We'd need to fly, Captain."

"No," Jones interjected, excitement rising in his voice. "It could work. With Stark's sticky grapple, like we did at…"

He hesitated, glanced at Stevie to gauge her reaction.

"Like we did at the train." She nodded, keeping her face neutral. _Calm and strong. That's what a captain is. _

"_Oui!" _Dernier pushed his way past Dugan to lean over the map. "Magnetic mines to blow the windows. Then we come in on a cable..._ici._"

"Exactly!" Stevie slapped the map on the desk. It was all coming together. The last plan. The last push.

"But for all this to work," Falsworth said. "There would need to be one hell of a distraction."

"And that's me." Stevie smiled.

"If I might summarize," Peggy pushed off from where she leaned against a wall, paced as well as she could in a small space filled with seven people. "You will get yourself captured in a solo frontal assault, hope that they take you to Schmidt's office instead of shooting you, and then we break in through the window and save the day?"

She raised a brow. "Am I missing anything?"

"You've got it," Stevie said. "But you'll be with the assault on the gate - the real one, once I blow the doors. We can't just take Schmidt down, we have to make sure that plane doesn't take off, no matter what else happens. If one of those warheads reaches the East Coast…"

She trailed off. They all knew the risks - the Valkyrie was a weapon of unprecedented destructive power, and they were all that stood between that weapon and the lives of millions.

"At this point, we can't afford to wait," She continued. "We can't afford caution. It's do or die."

She looked at each one of the others, stopping with Peggy. In their faces, she saw the same things she felt. Determination and grim resolve. She was so proud of them she felt a lump in her throat.

"We're with you, Captain," Peggy said. "Let's get this son of a bitch."

Stevie laughed in surprise, and the Commandos let loose a raucous cheer.

* * *

They were in a final frenzy of preparation. Schmidt's plan was going into effect - he planned to launch the Valkyrie in less than twenty-four hours. Stevie had never been part of such a large force - her team had been small and agile. Here, people were running and hauling and equipping all on top of each other while Peggy shouted at them.

Stevie was loading ammunition onto the transports when she heard someone clear his throat behind her.

"Captain Rogers. A word?" It was Colonel Phillips.

She put down the crate she was moving. "Sir?"

"I wasn't very kind to you back at the beginning, was I?"

She must have looked as surprised as she felt, because Phillips laughed, a dry chuckle.

"You've proved me abundantly wrong! But thank you for being so gracious about it."

"You're...welcome."

"Do you think you might be...too close to this operation?"

Stevie felt a dizzy rush of fear. He couldn't take this from her. Not now. Not after everything.

"Sir." She worked to stop her voice from trembling. "If you think my plans are unsound…"

"No, no." He waved his hand. "They're as good as they're gonna get at this point."

He sighed, his wrinkled face seeming to sag even further.

"Rogers." He sounded tired when he spoke. "As you may have guessed, this is not my first engagement. I've seen men lose friends. I've lost some myself, as it happens. It can make men...reckless. They start taking risks. Chasing death."

He gave her a piercing glance under his grizzled brows, brown eyes sharp.

"How old are you?"

She stumbled over the unexpected question. "Um...twenty-six."

"Twenty-six. God help us." The Colonel shook his gray head.

"It doesn't feel like it now," he continued. "But there's a lot ahead of you. Don't throw it away."

He clapped her on the shoulder and left, already bellowing at someone else.

_Chasing death. _

Stevie turned the phrase over in her mind, thought of her contingency plan, the Valkyrie plunging from the air. Bucky, falling from the train.

_No. _She shook herself a little. _That's not what I'm doing. I wouldn't do that unless I had no other choice._

_Would I?_

* * *

**In part, this chapter is inspired by something I read about Steve's character - that he takes ludicrous risks after Bucky dies, including crashing a freakin' plane, because he's experiencing near-suicidal depression. I wanted to address that more explicitly, as someone who has experienced depression myself. As always, feel free to tell me how I did in the comments.**

**Next time - Definitely the climactic battle and probably also the last chapter - finally, you guys!  
**


	29. Chapter 27

**The final chapter! (Sort of - see endnote for more info.) I worked hard to streamline the final confrontation, so you'll have to tell me how I did. **

**Trigger warning: Red Skull and Stevie face off in this chapter, so if violence against women is problematic for you - especially choking and hair-pulling - you may want to skim it.**

* * *

Chapter 27

March 4, 1945 - Hydra Headquarters, The Austrian Alps

* * *

A party of eight guards hustled Stevie through the corridors; the two largest holding her arms, a third carrying her shield. As they shoved her along she memorized each turn, matching the reality with Zola's sketched maps.

The first stage of the plan had worked flawlessly. She'd jumped her motorcycle right over the outer wall, blown up the gate with a self-destruct feature that Stark had added to the bike the night before. She'd fought just hard enough to make the assault credible, but surrendered as soon as they brought out the big guns. Now she just had to trust that her men would execute the rest of the plan with their usual flawless timing.

The guards took Stevie up one more flight of steps to a set of steel doors.

_Finally. _

The ceiling of Schmidt's office curve overhead into a smooth arch, walls paneled with strange, hexagonal tiles. Stevie scanned the room, noting every detail. Multi-armed, insectile machines hung from the ceiling. A polished mahogany desk sat in front of tall windows, looking out on the sharp, snow-covered peaks. And there, off to the right, a cube the size of a regulation baseball floated in a cylindrical chamber - the Tesseract.

Stevie had seen it at Runestone, the last time she had seen Schmidt in person. There, he'd tried to use it to bring the castle down on top of her. The blue cube floated inside its bell jar, beautiful and ethereal. There was a smell in the room - like ozone and electricity. It set her teeth on edge.

Schmidt walked out of the shadows at the edge of the room, hands behind his back. At the sight of him, Stevie's whole body tensed with anger.

"Arrogance may not be a uniquely American trait," he said. "But I must say, you do it better than anyone."

Schmidt stopped in front of her and looked her up and down - the contemptuous sneer on his face an exact copy of the one he'd worn the first time they had met in Kreischberg. Stevie felt hatred rise like acid in her throat.

_Not yet._

She looked back at him with equal disdain. Schmidt gave a little chuckle, teeth white and perfect behind his red, withered lips.

"There are limits to what even you can do, Captain. Or did Erskine tell you otherwise?"

"He told me you were insane," she replied.

"Ah." Schmidt shook his head. "He resented my genius, and tried to deny me what was rightfully mine. But he gave you everything."

He raised one gloved hand, ran a finger down her cheek. Stevie's hands itched. She wanted to hit him, tear him, make him hurt. She clenched her fists until her own gloves dug into her palms. He stroked her braid. She gritted her teeth.

_Not yet. _

"What made you so special?" he asked.

"Nothing," Stevie responded. "I'm just a girl from Brooklyn."

Schmidt slapped her hard across the face, so hard she might have fallen if the guards weren't still holding her arms. The pain came a moment later, left cheek throbbing like a second heartbeat. She spat blood onto the floor...and that was when she noticed it. A tiny red light on the window, blinking.

Stevie couldn't help it. She laughed.

"What…."

Schmidt didn't get to finish the question. The windows exploded, and four men smashed into the room - Dugan, Jones, Morita and Dernier. Stevie tore free of the guards, but in the few seconds it took for her to throw them across the room, Schmidt had seized the Tesseract and fled. And Stevie knew exactly where he was going.

_The Valkyrie_.

"Captain!" Jones tossed her shield to her. "Go get him! We'll catch up!"

She couldn't give him more than a smile before she ran off in pursuit.

* * *

Cries and gunfire echoed around her as she sprinted through the corridors. Peggy, Falsworth and Phillips must have been leading the frontal assault - but Stevie didn't have the time to worry about them. Schmidt was just ahead of her - a flash of red, a black coat, always out of reach. The only thing that mattered was getting to him, stopping him before he could reach the Valkyrie.

Stevie turned a corner and burst into a cavernous room. The Valkyrie was even more massive than she'd expected - a solid, wing-shaped shadow the size of a football field. As she skidded through the door, the plane was already rolling ponderously toward the mouth of the hangar.

Stevie was sprinting almost before her brain could register the situation, faster than she had ever run before, until the world was a blur around her, the only thing in her vision the huge aircraft pulling away ahead of her.

_Faster._

She had outrun a car. She had caught a submarine.

_Faster_.

Everyone was counting on her. She was their last chance, and she couldn't be too late. She couldn't. She _couldn't_.

_Faster!_

Her legs were burning, lungs heaving, vision narrowing to a tunnel. Still, the Valkyrie was outpacing her. All her strength, all her determination, everything she'd fought through to get here...it wouldn't be enough.

_No. _Stevie clenched her jaw. _I'll chase that thing right off the cliff if I have to!_

That was when she heard the roar of a car pulling up beside her.

"Get in!"

It was Peggy, matching her speed in a black convertible that looked like a nightmare on wheels. Colonel Phillips sat in the passenger seat, wind ruffling his thinning hair.

"We don't have all day, Rodgers!" He called over the noise of the engine.

Stevie vaulted the door, and had barely landed before Peggy gunned the engine and sent her tumbling into the back seat.

The hangar opened onto a sheer drop, where the plane would soar over the valley. Stevie pulled herself up using Colonel Phillips' headrest. She would have to jump, catch the Valkyrie's landing gear before they all fell over the edge, and climb into the bomb bay. She braced one foot on top of the door, wind in her face - then looked back at Peggy. Her brown hair was flying, brow furrowed in concentration. Stevie felt a sudden shiver, a premonition. Like she'd never see her friend again.

"Now or never Rodgers!" The Colonel shouted, snapping her out of her momentary reverie.

Stevie leaned down impulsively and kissed the old man on the cheek.

"Thanks for the ride!" she shouted.

And then she launched herself at the plane, catching the wheel column in a bear hug as Peggy wrenched the car into a bootlegger's turn. Stevie had a glimpse of the car skidding to a stop at the edge of the cliff, and then she was lifted into the dark belly of the Valkyrie.

* * *

The crew saw her, but not soon enough. Stevie had already clawed her way up over the struts and cables of the wheel assembly into the bay, where eight miniature bombers waited to drop their payloads on cities all along the East Coast. She dodged around the small planes and slipped through the main door just ahead of the pilots, ripping off the control panel and stabbing Stark's device into the wires behind it. Sparks fizzled and Stevie smelled burnt rubber.

_Does that mean it worked?_

There was a heavy thud from the other side of the door. Stevie backed away to give herself room to maneuver, but despite the sound of more impacts and indistinct shouts, the door held.

"Good work, Howard," she said with a smile.

Stevie found herself in a wide corridor with another sealed door at the end, brushed steel ribs arcing overhead. According to Zola's sketches, the second door would lead to the cockpit. As she started toward it, the door was forced open with a shriek of protesting metal, and four Hydra guards shoved their way through. The flight crew, probably, sent out by Schmidt to stop her - as if they could. Stevie sighed.

_I do not have time for this._

She feinted high, then threw low, striking the first man in the knees with the edge of her shield. He crumpled, screaming in pain. Stevie caught the shield on the rebound and leapt over the stricken man, catching one of the ceiling's metal ribs. She used the momentum to kick the second soldier in the face with both feet. He flew backwards, taking down one of his comrades in a tangle of limbs. The fourth man was waiting when she landed. He took a swing at her, but she grabbed his arm and flung him into the wall. He slid bonelessly to the floor and did not move.

Stevie squeezed through the half-open door. The Valkyrie's cockpit was enormous, more like a ship's bridge than anything Stevie would have expected to find on a plane - broad metal beams held up the high ceiling, and a huge bank of windows looked out on a dark ocean. There were four control stations not counting the pilot's, with their own seats and banks of instruments, and in the center of the room, the Tesseract floated in another containment chamber, cables running from it to every part of the plane.

Schmidt had been at the pilot's station, but when he heard Stevie enter he whirled, firing at her with his sidearm. Blue bolts of energy earthed themselves in the walls, sending white sparks flying in jets all around her. Stevie braced her shield and charged with a wordless cry of rage.

As she reached him, Stevie swung the shield in a great, backhanded blow, knocking the gun from his grip. Schmidt staggered back, but as Stevie closed to strike him, he surprised her with a punch to the gut that doubled her over. She dropped her shield, gasping for breath. Suddenly beside her, Schmidt seized her braid and yanked her head back.

"You don't give up, do you?" he hissed.

His other hand found her throat and squeezed. Stevie coughed, clawing at his arm, but couldn't do any damage through the leather of his sleeve.

"You could have the power of the gods!"

Schmidt's hand closed tighter, implacable. Bright starbursts filled Stevie's vision.

"But instead you wear a flag on your chest and think we fight a battle of nations. I have seen the future, Captain." His breath was hot on her cheek. "There are no flags."

"Nnn...ng…" Stevie croaked. Everything was swimming, sounds fading in and out.

Then, finally, she found purchase on the hand around her throat. She seized Schmidt's thumb and wrenched it back until she heard something pop. He cried out in pain. She tore free of his grip and slammed her strongest haymaker right into his jaw.

Schmidt fell backward onto the controls and suddenly they were both in the air, as the Valkyrie dove toward the sea. They slammed into the ceiling side by side, fight temporarily forgotten as they scrambled to climb down. Stevie reclaimed her shield, then pulled herself down a support beam to the navigator's station. Hidden by map panels as tall as a man, she took painful gasps, trying to slow her breathing as Schmidt brought the plane back to altitude. She felt a sharp pain in her scalp, and when she touched the spot, her glove came away bloody. The bastard had ripped out a hunk of her hair.

_We could slug each other all day and get nowhere,_ she thought. _All he has to do is play for time, and he'll win. I have to end this now._

Stevie took a quick look out from behind the bulkhead. Blue bolts immediately sizzled through the air around her and she jerked back - Schmidt must have found his gun. She'd seen what she needed to - the cylindrical containment chamber, with the Tesseract floating inside. Schmidt was standing right in front of it, and that gave Stevie an idea. She would only have one shot, but it just might work.

"You want to know why Erskine didn't choose you?" she called, voice hoarse and painful. She had to keep him angry, so he wouldn't realize what she was doing.

"He was a coward!" Schmidt shouted in return. "Afraid of the future!"

Stevie crouched, muscles tight. When she emerged, she'd have to do it in one quick move.

"He knew you were a failure! And you've proven him right haven't you? Letting a woman beat you at every turn! How many of your bases did I burn, Schmidt?"

He snarled, anger terrible on his ruined face.

"I..will..beat...you...now!" Every word was punctuated with a blast from his gun. "Your city will be a smoking ruin, and your country a leaderless…"

Stevie stepped out of hiding and hurled her shield as hard as she could. Schmidt's last shot went wide as he dodged, and the shield hit the control mechanism on Tesseract's containment chamber.

There was a burst of white light and force that knocked them both to the floor. Stevie rolled to her feet, bright afterimages clouding her vision. The blue cube had fallen to the floor. Where was it? She sprang forward, but Schmidt was faster. The cube was already in his hand, his horrible face lit with its unearthly light. For a moment, Stevie thought he meant to strike her with it. Then, it flared a blinding blue-white.

"No," Schmidt whispered, looking down at the cube in horror. Light was pouring off the Tesseract like water. Stevie felt the light wash over her - saw unimaginable shapes, colors without names. Then, reality tore open.

There was a hole in the air above them - terrible and impossible. Stevie could see strange constellations, dark nebulae, unfathomable shadows moving between the stars. She felt the vestigial terror of prey before the hunter, rooted to the spot, unable to move even though she longed to flee.

"No!" Schmidt screamed.

Stevie managed to look away from the hole in the air and saw, to her horror, that Schmidt was fading, flickering like a picture on a broken television. He wailed, voice growing softer and softer, like he was moving farther and farther away. As Stevie watched, the tear in space pulled Schmidt into itself and closed as if it had never been. The Tesseract fell to the floor, glowing white, and burned a hole through the metal until it dropped out of sight. Stevie stood silently in the giant, empty cockpit, heart pounding. Then she heard the alarms.

There was no time to think about what she'd seen. The Valkyrie was going down. Stevie slipped into the pilot's seat. The huge plane was nowhere near as responsive as Raisa's bomber, but she heaved back on the wheel and managed to bring the nose up. She activated the radio.

"This is Captain Rogers, do you read me?" _If the Commandos have the base…_

"We read you, Captain." Morita's voice crackled from the speaker. Stevie had never felt so glad to hear him. "How are things in the air?"

"Not great." Stevie checked her instruments. "Schmidt's...gone, but without the Tesseract I'm not sure I'll be able to keep the plane up long enough to reach land…"

Among the instruments, she noticed a map of the East Coast with a glowing indicator.

"Oh, no…"

There was a brief shuffling noise and then Peggy's crisp alto.

"What is it, Stevie?"

"We're almost in range. The bombers are completely undamaged. If the pilots manage to open the bay doors manually…."

Another indicator blinked. Stevie cursed.

"And they just did."

"Can you reseal the door?" Peggy asked. "Should I get Howard? He could walk you through some field modifications."

"There's no time. I'm losing power and control functions. The Tesseract must have fried the plane when it went off."

More indicators, red lights flashing.

"Soon I won't even be able to steer."

Stevie looked at the map. The eight little dots, one of which was home. There was still something she could do.

"I'm sorry, Peggy," she said. "We won't be getting that apartment together after all."

"You're not thinking of…" Peggy's voice was incredulous. "No. There has to be another way. Set the autopilot and..."

"It's out of commission. Manual only."

There was a moment of silence.

"I'm sorry, Stevie," Peggy said at last. "I can't think of anything else."

"That's alright," she said. Swallowed to clear her throat, keep her voice steady. "Who's with you?"

"Corporal Morita and Lieutenant Falsworth."

"I'd like to talk to them."

Morita was the first to take the mike. "Captain," he said, voice wavering.

"Corporal," she replied. "Thanks for coming along."

"It's been...it's…"

To Stevie's surprise, the normally sarcastic medic broke down into sobs. Falsworth's mellow baritone cut in.

"What I'm sure the Corporal means, Captain, is that it has been an honor to serve in your company."

"The honor is all mine," she said, feeling tears come to her own eyes. "Peggy?"

"I'm here." The other woman's voice trembled, ever so slightly.

What could she say to the first person besides Bucky who'd ever really believed in her?

"Thank you," Stevie said. "Thank you for everything. Tell the others…"

But the radio had cut out, only the soft hiss of static coming through the cockpit speakers. Beneath the plane, the ocean raced by. It was time. She might not be the greatest pilot, but this she could do. Stevie pushed the wheel down as far as it would go. The plane plunged toward the sea. An alarm started to blare as the altimeter spun.

Now that the decision was made, Stevie didn't feel any fear. She felt...relief. Red Skull was dead. Hydra and the Nazis were both falling apart. The bombs would never reach Brooklyn, or Jersey, or Washington. After all the pain, after all the loss, after everything - it was over. She could rest.

The ocean filled her view, white ice on fathomless blue. There was no sky. Stevie closed her eyes.

_Mom. Dad. Bucky. I'm coming._

The windows burst, and wall of water hit her like a train. After that, there was only darkness.

* * *

**Before anyone freaks out, there will be an epilogue. i considered leaving it with Stevie's "death", but thought that would be too cruel. The epilogue will deviate from cinematic continuity and introduce a favorite Marvel character early. Can you guess who it is? ;-)**


	30. Epilogue

**We have reached the end! Frankly, I'm amazed to be here. This is the largest single work of writing I have ever completed, and certainly the largest I have shown to the public at large. I am more grateful to you than I can ever express. Without your encouragement, I could never have fought through all the crap I've fought through through in the last TWO YEARS to get this written. Whether you've been here since day 1, or you just stumbled across this fic; whether you read the whole thing or just dipped in for a chapter or two - a thousand thanks to all of you.**

**On the Epilogue!**

* * *

Epilogue - Manhattan

* * *

There were sounds, lights. Things moved around her, people spoke, but everything seemed very far away. Time was an illusion, and she drifted in a bubble just outside the world, with no name and no memories. She wondered if she was alive. Was this what came after death - this formless, weightless limbo?

Then, like someone had turned on a light, Stephanie Rogers came back to herself.

She was lying on something soft, cool fabric under her fingertips. Her body ached with vague, generalized soreness. She tried to swallow, but her throat was as dry as if she'd been drinking sand.

_Well, that rules out heaven, _Stevie thought, blurrily. She doubted the afterlife would include a mouth that tasted like old leather. But that begged the question... Where was she?

Something beeped politely from somewhere to her left. There was a rustle of cloth, a faint cough. Someone else was with her. Stevie felt a stab of fear, her lurching into action. Who had found her? The Commandos?

_Or Hydra?_

She slitted her eyes open, keeping as still as she could, her breathing as smooth and even as though she still slept.

It was night. In the mellow lamplight, the room was all sleek curves. The wall to her right was glass, one huge window looking out on the pinprick lights and blocky silhouettes of an unidentifiable city. On her left sat a young woman - the source of the cough, Stevie realized.

She was strange, and got stranger the more Stevie looked at her. Her clothes were loose and colorful as a set of pajamas, and her hair stuck up in tufts like the crest of an exotic bird. Was she some kind of guard? Not for Hydra, surely, with their black uniforms and masks. Not for the Allies, either. She'd be in tailored olive drab.

Something in the woman's hands shone onto her face, images reflecting off her black-framed glasses. It was rectangular, and small - thinner than a deck of playing cards - and a bright, bubblegum pink. Wires from the...whatever it was...seemed to plug directly into the woman's ears.

_Some kind of...miniature television?_

Stevie had seen a television at the World's Fair, six years ago. It was a wood-paneled cabinet that came up to her shoulder, back when she'd been five feet tall in heels. Some kind of radar screen would be more likely, a portable security monitoring device. Had Howard whipped it up in secret since she'd last seen him? If so, pink was an unusual choice. As the woman shifted, she revealed a card clipped to her shirt. The card a picture of her face, and a name - Lily Lucero.

_She's not a guard. _No one in a military installation would have their name pinned to their chest. _Wait…_ There was something strange about the photo on the card. The picture was in color.

Lily looked up. Her eyes met Stevie's.

"Where am I?" Stevie croaked.

Lily leapt to her feet like she'd been electrocuted, her little screen clattering to the floor between her feet, wires dangling from her ears, unnoticed.

Stevie tried to sit up. Her body felt slow, removed from her, as if her brain's instructions had to cover a larger than usual distance to reach her hands and feet. Something tugged at her, and she noticed that a tube was sticking out of her arm, tying her to a bag of some yellowish liquid.

_What the…? _

She yanked it out - a bead of blood welled up immediately where it had been. Stevie patted herself down frantically. They had taken her uniform and given her some kind of loose gown. With a feeling of crawling horror, she noticed things were stuck to her everywhere - there were patches on her chest and temples, even a tube between her legs. She tore them all away.

_What were they doing to me? _Visions of the lab at Kreichsberg flashed in Stevie's mind, the chair she'd found Bucky in, syringes and vials filled with God knows what.

"Oh! No!" At last, the other woman spoke, snatching the wires from her ears and tossing them aside. "No...you really shouldn't do that!"

Stevie got to her feet, floor cold and slick-feeling on her bare soles. Silver stars flickered across her eyes for a second. The soft beeping had changed to shrill alarms.

"Jarvis!" Lily called out. "I need Medical on Level Six immediately!"

She held out her hands placatingly toward Stevie. "Please, Captain Rogers. I can explain everything."

_Have to get out of here_, Stevie thought.

The window was the best option. Smash it with a chair, then jump to the street. If she'd survived a plane crash, she'd probably survive that. Stevie hesitated. Something wasn't right. If these people were hostile, why hadn't she been restrained? They'd left her with a girl wearing pajamas and no weapons in sight.

The door burst open, and a man skidded into the room, breathing as though he'd run all the way there. He was wearing loose pants and a t-shirt with the letters "ACDC" and a lightning bolt. Stevie took a moment to run through all the organizational acronyms she knew of, but she couldn't place it. Then, she finally saw his face.

"Sorry," he said. "I would have been here sooner, but you weren't supposed to wake up for another two weeks."

"Howard?" Stevie asked. Something flashed in the man's eyes for just a moment. Something like sorrow.

The girl ran to him. "Mr. Stark, I only looked away for a second, I swear…"

"Don't worry about it," he glanced at the name tag, "Lily?"

The girl nodded. He scooped up her...whatever it was...from the floor and gave it back to her, adding a conciliatory pat on the shoulder that he used to steer her toward the door.

"Everything's under control. Why don't you give us a few minutes. Go grab a coffee or something. Oh, and," he spoke to the air above her head, "belay that order for medical support."

"At once, sir," the air responded in a cool, accented voice. This seemed to surprise no one except Stevie herself.

The man turned back to face her. He was barefoot, his black hair spiked by sleep, carefully-trimmed beard smudged by stubble. Stevie noticed a circular light shining under his shirt, another strange detail in a rapidly-growing list.

"Tony," the man said. "I'm Tony Stark. Howard was my father."

"Your father?"

"This room's a bit small for an echo."

The resemblance to Howard was uncanny, not just the way he looked, but the way he carried himself. That automatic swagger, the playful bravado. But this man's face was lined, hair speckled with gray. Howard had been _younger_ than this man when she saw him last.

_How could Howard have a son who was older than he was?_ Dread grew inside her like a strangling vine.

"You're back in the Big Apple," Tony continued. "Did they call NYC that, in your day?"

He talked rapidly and constantly, like he was afraid of silence.

"In Stark Tower. My building. It's just been completed, actually. Revolutionary technology, self-powering…"

Tony must have seen the utter lack of comprehension on her face, because he stopped. The aggressively garrulous front dropped for an instant, and he sighed, ran a hand through his rumpled hair. The look was back. Sorrow, or pity. Stevie was at once desperate to hear what he would say, and terrified of it.

"There's no easy way to say this...You've been asleep for a long time."

Her mouth was even drier than before, which she wouldn't have thought possible.

"How long?"

In answer, Stark walked to the window, waved a hand in front of it. Like a magic trick, the window slid to the side, opening up on a balcony that jutted over the street. He stepped out, and after a moment, Stevie followed, the wind lifting her unbound air, blowing her thin gown against her.

It was Manhattan, but not the Manhattan she knew. Around the familiar spire of the Chrysler Building, impossible towers loomed, tall and glittering. Down at street level bright signs flashed and changed, primary colors shifting, moving.

"It's April 3rd, 2012," Tony said. "So you've been on ice for," he paused momentarily, lips moving. "Sixty-seven years and one month, give or take."

Blood hissed dizzily in her ears. For a moment, she felt like she was floating above her body - as if she'd come unglued from gravity, and would hang there, suspended, while the earth spun away beneath her. Like she'd floated outside herself as she dreamed.

_Maybe I never woke up at all, _Stevie thought. _Maybe I'm still dreaming._

Stevie closed her eyes. The balcony rail was cool under her hands. Gritty. She could hear traffic on the street below, honks and rumbles. When she opened her eyes, nothing had changed.

_Sixty-seven years._

God, how old would Peggy be now? Was she even alive? Was Dugan? Or Jones? Their faces flashed through Stevie's mind. Colonel Phillips. Falsworth. Morita. Dernier. Farther back. Sal, Doris, the chorus girls. Ma Barnes.

All dead, or aged beyond recognition.

And then the thought crashed into her mind - she was standing next to Howard Stark's son. Had Peggy married? Did she have children? Was Private Jones a hunched octogenarian, showing his old war photos to the grandkids? How many of the Commandos had children older than she was - grandchildren older than she was?

"We were going to get an apartment together," she whispered. Or maybe she just thought it. "We were going to be telephone operators."

_Sixty-seven years_.

"Where are my manners? Pepper would be so disappointed in me."

Tony's voice pulled Stevie out of her reverie. He smiled at her conspiratorially. It was his father's smile.

"I should probably consult with the doctors before giving you solid food," he said, "but seeing as you're awake thirteen days ahead of schedule...How does breakfast sound?"

Sal's voice came to her, what he used to say before shows, when they were all exhausted from the road.

_Whatever happens, put a good face on it. The show must go on!_

Stevie tried a smile. It felt like she'd stuck it to her face with masking tape and tacks.

"Breakfast sounds great," she said, suddenly ravenous. "And coffee, if you have it. Some pants would be nice, too"

"Pants, coffee and breakfast, coming right up." Tony led her back into the room, closed the window they'd come through with another wave of his hand. "You like waffles? Gluten-free alright?"

"Sure," Stevie said. She had no idea what that meant, but imagined she'd find out soon enough.

Tony rifled through a drawer that opened out of the wall and tossed Stevie a loose shirt and pants, almost identical to the ones she'd worn as part of Project Rebirth two - _no, sixty-seven _\- years ago.

"You know," Tony said, "if it's an apartment you need, there's plenty of space here. You could have a whole floor to yourself. Stark Tower is a fully-integrated smart house, and the only carbon-neutral building of its size in the country. When you know what that means you'll be very impressed, I promise. And you would not _believe_ how much rent has gone up in New York City in the past few years."

Tony opened the door to the hallway, using a reassuringly normal doorknob this time.

"I'll be out here when you're done," he said. "Also, sorry to break it to you, but telephone operators don't exist anymore. You'll have to find another line of work."

"Well," Stevie said. "That's disappointing. What do you do for a living?"

He smiled rakishly as he slipped out of the room. "I save the world."

She was left in the room, alone. The silence echoed around her.

_This is real, and you can't go back_, she told herself firmly. It was like Ma Barnes used to say when she would curl Stevie's hair, or when they'd have tea late at night while Bucky worked late.

_Sometimes, in life, you get a bad hand. But you can only play the hand you're dealt._

And things weren't that bad - she'd been awake for ten minutes and she already had an apartment, a pair of pants, and a breakfast date with Howard Stark's son. She remembered what he'd said as he left the room. _I save the world._

She was alive. Many were not. She wouldn't waste it. She would play the hand she'd been dealt. She would save the world.

* * *

**What now? Well, gentle readers, I plan to take a bit of break and _read_ some fanfiction for a change. Let me know if you have suggestions, or write fics of your own! After that, I want to use NaNoWriMo to jump into a Winter Soldier continuation of Stevie's story. I'm skipping Avengers, because I can't think of much I would really change or add to the existing storyline. To wind of, one last batch of Interesting Historical Notes.  
**

**Things Stephanie Rogers pre-dates:**

*The widespread use of IV's in hospitals. Early IV's were developed in the 1800's, but the technique did not become practical or widespread until the 1950's. Foley catheters were introduced in the mid 1930's, but I don't think Stevie is likely to have had personal experience with one, hence her horror. Fun fact, rudimentary catheters were used in Egypt and Ancient Greece as early as 3,000 BC!

*Widespread use of color photography (obviously) - I mention it because the first color photos were taken in the **1850's**, and people continued to experiment with color photography all the way through the early 1900's. It's the expense of the technology rather than its absence that lead to color photography not being widely used until the 1960's.

*Our concept of "television". While early "mechanical" televisions were available in the 1920's, the electronic television debuted at the World's Fair in 1939. At the time, a TV cost between $200 and $600 dollars - that's 1939 dollars, the equivalent of thousands in today's money - and was a ridiculously huge piece of furniture. Understandably, Televisions didn't start to really take off until the post-war years.

*The introduction of the Belgian-style waffle to the United States. While waffles are of medieval origin, and commercially-available waffle mix existed as early as the 1930's, the Belgian waffle debuted at the 1962 World's Fair. Gluten-free waffles, however, are a distinctly modern invention.

*The development of the high-five (1977). It isn't relevant to this chapter, I just think it's cool.


End file.
